Chuck vs The Mother of All Headaches
by Armadilloi
Summary: read by 2/28. It will be deleted.
1. Chapter 1

He had the Mother of All Headaches. He'd flashed the previous afternoon while reviewing some intel at the Castle. His flashes were now accompanied by a sudden burst of pain followed by a massive headache that almost made him vomit. And the headaches were never totally gone. He wondered if he should buy stock in Advil since he'd been popping them like TicTacs for a week now.

This started the week before on a mission when he'd left the car to tackle a Fulcrum agent who'd eluded his team mates and slipped out of the warehouse they were searching. He'd been kicked in the head by the rogue agent and been briefly unconscious and the Fulcrum agent had escaped.

In an area of the brain known as the Canal of Willis a small capillary ruptures allowing a small amount of blood to pool in the small area between the many brain cells, displacing them, compressing them. A very small amount, certainly not discernable to the naked eye, too small to show up on a CAT scan. But it was there, a small semi-circle of blood. Over time the body healed the small rent in the capillary, scarring the vessel wall, weakening it and the blood formed a clot.

He'd crawled back to the Herder and returned to his seat. He didn't want Sarah berating him again for leaving the car. Or hear Casey utter Grunt #9 ("Aw, did the widdle woosie get a booboo?"). He didn't mention it when the disgruntled agents returned empty handed to the car. It was a long and quiet drive back to the Castle, each lost in their own thoughts. The Beckman briefing had been mercifully brief and for once Chuck was not the object of her ire.

After the briefing, Casey immediately began questioning Chuck about the accuracy of his interpretation of the flash. Did he have the right address? The right date? Did he have _anything_ right? Of course, no blaming his handlers. They were perfect. They were trained agents. He was just the nerd with the intersect in his head who stayed in the car while real agents handled the situation. He _must_ have been wrong.

"Casey, maybe, just maybe, you and Walker blew it. Missed the target. Let someone outsmart you. Don't blame me for your mistakes. The intel was right. The Intersect was right. My interpretation was right. Now, if there's nothing else you feel obligated to rag me out for, I'm outta here. I'm tired and I have the early shift tomorrow." Getting to his feet he ignored the surprised looks on his handlers' faces and charged up the stairs and out of the Castle.

"Somebody didn't get their nap today. Chuckie's a bit cranky," Casey snarked.

Sarah sighed. "You know, you could cut him a little slack. His intel has been right-on and he's right, we may have been outsmarted. He's not a trained agent. He's just a guy who is trying to make the most of a bad situation. You don't always have to be such a gloating prick about everything."

She hadn't missed his referring to her as "Walker" instead of "Sarah". For some reason that hurt.

Casey just let fly Grunt #7. He'd never admit it, but she was right. He did enjoy picking on Chuck. He did it more now than before since he felt he knew his boundaries. He'd developed a grudging respect for the little … for Chuck but wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of a response.

Logging out of the system and setting the night security sensors, he followed his partner up the stairs and out into the parking lot. Another day down the tubes. And he had a boring evening ahead of him, monitoring the Bartowski audio surveillance tapes

_Symptoms of an acute subdural hematoma initially present themselves as nervousness, anxiety with marked behavioral changes and increased irritability. impulsiveness and disinhibition._

3 days later

He didn't want his handlers to know about the headaches since the outcome of any such revelation was probably going to be a bullet in the brain in a botched robbery attempt or something equally as innocuous and untraceable to the government. He didn't want his brain ending up in a specimen jar in some NSA laboratory. He knew first hand how the government handled their obsolete assets. He didn't want to die.

The day had been interesting to say the least. He hadn't been in the store more than 5 minutes before Big Mike came charging out of his office shouting "Bartowski, what the hell is going on here?" and definitely invading his personal space. "Bartowski, this store is falling apart. Orders are not logged in, the Green Shirts are at the video wall again and repairs are backed up in the cage. You know who's responsible for all this, don't you? Well, don't you? And what are you going to do about it?"

Chuck's hand shot out and grabbed Big Mike's tie, jerking the big man even closer and loudly replying. "Yeah, Big Mike, I know _exactly_ who's responsible for all this. YOU are responsible. You're the manager making the big bucks. You're the big man who stays in his office all day, filling his fat face full of doughnuts, cinnamon rolls and slurping down soft drinks in between forays to the local deli for sandwiches and snacks."

The store was deathly quiet as the Green Shirts and Nerd Herders observed the confrontation. Morgan came rushing up and grabbed Chuck, trying to pull him away from Big Mike.

"Chuck, be cool, back off, give the big man some room." He looked at Chuck and saw no hint of the usual easy-going friend. Instead he saw a red-faced Chuck, veins standing out in tension, a cold and determined look in his eyes. He'd never seen Chuck so angry, not even when Bryce tried to contact Chuck after the whole Stanford mess.

Big Mike's eyes were bulging out of his head as he tried to pull away from Chuck but Chuck just kept a taut hold on Big Mike's tie, ignoring Morgan and pushing his face closer to Big Mike's.

"I'll fix all of this if you'll just quit yelling at me and get your fat ass back into your office. I'll tell you when it's done but until then, stay out of my way and let me do your job."

He let go of Big Mike's tie and the man stumbled backwards, almost tripping over himself hurrying to his office thinking 'Bartwoski's either losing it or he's growing a pair. Either way I win.' He slammed his office door shut, smiled and sat down, selected a nice fresh chocolate doughnut from the half-eaten box and opened up his fishing magazine to the article he'd been reading. Life was good.

"Um, Chuck, your nose is bleeding, bro. I'll, yeah, I'll get you a tissue." Morgan paused, surveying the store. "Wait right here, I'll be right back."

Chuck pivoted towards the cluster of employees, an evil grin twisting his face. "Lester, Jeff, into the cage. Have every repair done by end of shift or you don't need to come back tomorrow". Lester started to protest but Jeff just grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the line of fire muttering "This is not good. This is not good. Must work. Must work hard."

Morgan came back with a tissue and Chuck said "Morgan, you and Anna head to the break room. Find some Clorox or some disinfectant and you both better sterilize those tables, chairs and any other horizontal surface you've christened. Don't let me catch you goofing off, either of you. Unemployment is at an all-time high here in sunny California so I'm sure you won't be hard to replace."

Dismissing them with a glare, he turned to the remaining employees, eyeing each of them and saying in a soft voice "OK, there are customers waiting for your expertise and I better not see a customer wandering around without one of you trying to sell them something. I better not see any goofing off or it's the highway. If you're not willing to work for the Greater Good, you're gone."

"Now, I'm going on break and going over to chat up my so-called girl friend. Any problems will have to wait until I'm back. But then, there won't BE any problems, will there?"

Sarah looked up from the building she'd been constructing using straws and swizzle sticks when Chuck opened the door. Business wasn't exactly booming and she'd completed her tasks minutes after coming to work so "straw construction" as Chuck called it was the order of the day. She grinned and said "Hi, honey, you're early. Is something wrong? Or couldn't you stand my absence one moment longer than necessary?" She loved it when he blushed at her endearments and flirtatious banter but she noticed he wasn't blushing. He was angry.

"Oh, yeah, honey, you're right. I just couldn't stay away. In fact, I think it's time to seal the deal between us. I mean, after all, you've done it before. Just think of this as an easy way to gain my compliance and cooperation. 'Stay in the car, Chuck. Flash on the bad men, Chuck. Let us ruin your life, Chuck.' I mean it shouldn't be hard for you. You've done it before. Hell, you did it with Bryce and …"

He never got to finish the sentence. Sarah's hand connected with his cheek, knocking him back a step. She stopped, a horrified look on her face, her eyes tearing over, her breath hitching. "Chuck, I'm sorry. I never meant to hit you but what's come over you? What's wrong with you? You know I have feelings for you but I can't let them show. I can't be what you want and need. I'm your handler and…."

"Don't say it. Don't you dare say it. I'm sick to death of all your excuses, your reasons, your dedication to the job and the Greater Good. Jesus, Sarah, don't you get tired of being a hypocrite". He wiped his lip, smearing blood over it. His damned nose was bleeding again. He wiped his hand on a napkin and threw it at her. "Here, you've taken everything else, take my blood, too!" and left the store slamming the glass front, making it rattle.

Intracranial pressure increases in direct proportion to blood pressure. The weakened capillary wall again splits, allowing more blood to pool, forming the classic sickle shape of the hematoma. The amount is small but increased the volume of the blood pool, displacing more brain cells and causing an increase in intracranial pressure which in turn increased the size of the tear and the amount of blood slowly leaking into the brain increasing the size of the clot.

Sarah began to cry, falling to her knees, sobbing behind the counter. She didn't hear Casey come in from the Castle.

"C'mon, CIA, we have a problem. Chuck's off the reservation. He just told Big Mike to get his fat ass back into his office, and scared the crap out of the rest of the crew. He sent them off on various tasks after threatening them with near-death experiences. I was in the back but heard all about it from Jeff, Lester and then Morgan. Anna was in shock but I really think she was incredibly turned on by Chuck. The lad's definitely grown a pair overnight but I don't think that's our Chuck at all. Did you see his nose bleeding? I think something's wrong. We need to report this to Beckman. The Intersect is in jeopardy."

"Casey, you're exaggerating. Chuck is obviously stressed out about everything. He hasn't had a break in a year and I think it's all just starting to wear him down. Let's give him a while and see if this is just Chuck's way of dealing with all the crap that's been thrown at him or if it's something more serious. Besides, the blood is probably from my slap. I hit him pretty hard. So, if it continues to be a problem, we'll talk to Beckman. Deal?"

"Ok, Walker, but I don't like this new Chuck. I liked the whiney nerd. He was predictable. This guy is definitely different. A few days, a week at the most. If it continues, we go to Beckman."

"Oh, it won't continue," said Sarah, thinking "not after I have a few words with a certain Chuck Bartowski." She knew she was the Queen of Mixed Signals but she really did have deep and, so far, repressed feelings for Chuck. They had a "cover date" tomorrow night and she planned to eliminate all doubt from Chuck's mind about where he and Sarah were headed in the long run. Agent Walker was definitely off for the night. The woman, Sarah Walker, was in charge and looking forward to scratching some intimate itches with the man she found she couldn't live without.

***


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I don't own Chuck. If I did, things would be different._

Chuck popped 4 Advil, clocked out of the Buy More, got in the Herder and headed home. Home. What a joke. He was living with his sister and Captain Awesome, contributing minimally as his Buy More paycheck was less than stellar. And his government paycheck was… wait, _WHAT_ government paycheck?

He was tired. Both physically and mentally. He needed a break, a vacation, time away from his two jobs, his two lives. Time away from all of it. But especially he needed time away from the people who drained him of his emotional energy for their own purposes. The life-force vampires who drained him at every turn and then criticized him for making it all so necessary.

A sister who probably meant well but whose nagging and constant badgering about the nature and direction of his life and 'relationship' (or lack thereof) with his girl friend had recently been getting on his last nerve.

"Chuck, you're not wearing _that_ on a date with Sarah, are you?; translation from Elliespeak: "You look like a slob, go change into something I will find more acceptable".

"Chuck, you've been dating Sarah for almost two years, where is this all going?"; translation from Elliespeak: "When are you going to get serious and move in together, get engaged, get married… get out?"

A soon-to-be brother-in-law who was almost as bad as Ellie. His constant affirmation of Ellie's advice and comments was fast getting old. Chuck wondered if Devon had exchanged his right to his own opinions for bedding rights with his sister. That thought surprised him. Where had that come from?

Sarah, his CIA handler and super spy who pretended to be his girlfriend to provide a public cover for her real role in his life, Protector Of The Intersect. No doubt about it, despite the occasional lapse, she was all business and that meant the relationship was a sham, a shell, a hollow construct to enable the government to control his actions and use his unwanted gift to Protect The Greater Good.

God, how he hated that phrase and how often it was used to explain/excuse/justify her actions. Why hadn't he seen through her attempts to use his feelings to get what she wanted earlier? It would have saved him so much heartache. Well, he'd avoid her tonight and try to think of a valid excuse, erm, reason, for breaking their cover date the following evening.

And then there was Major Grunt. Casey. So far he'd identified at least 17 different grunts in lieu of sentences. He'd once considered Casey a possible friend, but no more. Not since he'd overheard him telling Sarah that he'd relish an end to this assignment of protecting a whiney, nerdy little wimp of an asset and get back to "real and meaningful operations".

As he fought the traffic and his headache, he felt something dribbling down his upper lip. Oh, great. Another nosebleed. Just what he needed to complete this incredible day. He opened the glove box and took out the small package of tissues he kept there and wiped his lips and chin, dabbing at the stains on his tie and shirt. He twisted a clean tissue and stuffed it up his nostril, hoping it would stop the bleeding until he got home. The Advil must have kicked in because his head didn't hurt nearly as much as it did earlier.

He didn't want to go home. Maybe he'd go to the beach and just chill out watching the waves. He definitely needed a vacation. "Yeah, a vacation. A road trip. Just me and the road, no destination, just go until I stop…"

Only one problem. He didn't own a car. Greyhound was so not a road trip. He thought about his options then remembered Mrs. Gottlieb in the upstairs apartment. Her husband had recently passed away and she didn't drive so her old Chevy Impala just sat there, gathering dust and rust. "I wonder if she'd sell it?" He knew it was in great shape because he'd seen old Mr. Gottlieb obsessing over his car, checking this and that. Hell, he'd bet his next paycheck that the car never went more than a mile or two over any recommended service mileage point.

Now having a plan, a way of overcoming his lack of personal transportation, he spotted a Bank of America ATM and pulled the Herder over to the curb.

He withdrew his entire checking account balance and cleaned out his savings account of 6 years. Not a lot to show for 6 years of saving but it was $7,000.00. Surely a 20-year old Chevy couldn't cost all that much. Tucking his money into his pocket he headed home to see Mrs. Gottlieb.

Chuck knocked at the door. Mrs. Gottlieb answered, opening up the door and scooting her walker out of the way and inviting Chuck in. She'd always liked the young man from downstairs and he often talked to her and her husband or helped them carry groceries up to the apartment from the car. A nice young man.

"Hello, Chuck, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Well, Mrs. Gottlieb, I know you don't drive and I know that your husband recently passed away and I was wondering if you'd thought about selling your car?" The words rushed out in one long sentence.

"I'll be moving in with my daughter down in San Diego later this month and I've been avoiding dealing with the car. You know, kind of my last bit of independence since my husband died. But yes, I want to sell it. It's of no use to me now, just another bill to pay for insurance I don't need."

And so began a lengthy negotiation over price, interrupted by an offer of cookies and milk, 2 trips to the bathroom for Mrs. Gottlieb, and finally her insistence on accepting a much lower price than Chuck had been prepared to offer. It seems she really did like him. After closing the deal, he ran down to the car and pulled the title and registration out of the glove box and returned to Mrs. Gottlieb.

With her signature and a bill of sale receipt, he was now the proud owner of a 20 year old Chevy Impala with less than 40,000 miles on it and 4 brand new tires ("My husband always got new tires every 2 years whether they were needed or not").

Chuck used the Morgan door to slip into his room and continue planning his Great Escape. He didn't want to deal with Ellie and her "issues" or Captain Awesome and his constant badgering Chuck to "come take a run with me, Chuck." Besides, his stomach was a bit upset. Probably because he hadn't eaten anything but Advil since yesterday.

His phone vibrated and he saw Sarah's picture. He didn't want to deal with her now. Not after their confrontation at the Orange Orange. No, he needed some time and space to figure out how to handle this situation. He'd tried the breakup route and it hadn't worked. He could handle "just being friends". To hell with her cover. It was _her problem, _not his. He was sure the CIA manual had a procedure for handling any possibility. Let the vaunted Agent Walker handle her own problems. He punched 'Ignore' and put the phone down. Time to get to work on the plan.

He fired up his laptop and googled a California coastal road map. He planned a drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, enjoying the view, just cruising north until something else struck his fancy, stopping whenever and where ever he pleased.

His cell vibrated again but he saw it was Sarah (again) and let it go straight through to voicemail.

_If left untreated, a subdural hematoma can lead to dizziness, muscle aches and spasms, short term memory loss as well as blurred vision and lightheadedness. Further presentations include aphasia (Difficulty finding words or understanding the speech of others and inability to concentrate. While the mortality rate is still low, less than 3%, if left untreated or if the condition is exacerbated, mortality rates increase geometrically._

Sarah disconnected without leaving a 2nd message. If Chuck wanted to be difficult, so be it. She would bring him around the following evening. God, she was sooo looking forward to being just a girl and leaving the agent behind her even for just one night but secretly she hoped it would be one of many, many nights. Casey, the NSA and the CIA be damned. She wanted this. She wanted Chuck.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. Criticism is welcome since I'm not the writer some of you are and I appreciate any constructive direction.

Yes, I know that Chuck could do the naked pretzel with Anna but TBI does not necessarily warp one's moral compass. So, sorry, no Wu woo. And yes, I know that subdural hematomas, if left untreated, have a high mortality rate, but I'm here as living proof that it's not THAT high and that further deterioration will not result in imminent shuffling from this mortal coil even 10 –15 days after the initial event…unless you're treated at a VA hospital of course. I have no intentions of "baggin' and taggin'" Chuck or letting him stroke out. Thus the distinction between 'chronic' and 'acute' subdural hematomas.

John Casey was not a happy camper. The Intersect's actions and behavior were running up red flags and sounding alarm bells in his mind but Walker was either blind or too smitten to follow procedure and report the anomalies to General Beckman as required. She'd convinced him to give Chuck time, a few days, and he'd agreed albeit reluctantly. He just knew it was a mistake and that nothing good could come of it. He planned on keeping a very tight Mark One eyeball on Bartowski and if his erratic behavior continued, he'd unilaterally take action. Walker was the best partner he'd ever had but breaking protocol in Casey's mind meant compromised.

He did have to hand it to Chuck though. Big Mike stayed in his office and the flunkies now moved with a purpose. The restoration of purpose and order, done with such panache, satisfied something deep within him. Maybe Bartowski'd just discovered that those little spherical ovoids in his tightie-whities were for more than balance and scratching. No matter his misgivings, he'd promised Walker a few days and a few days she'd have.

His cell vibrated and he saw the display 'BECKMAN' and answered, "Casey, unsecure" and heard "well, Major, get secured and contact me immediately. We need to discuss updating the… well, we'll discuss it in a secure commo environment. Have Agent Walker meet you at the Castle and teleconference me then. There is no need to involve anyone else."

"Doesn't that woman ever say 'Goodbye'?" and dialed Walker's cell.

"Meet me in the Castle for a teleconference with General Beckman ASAP," and disconnected. Sarah looked at her cell thinking "Doesn't that man ever say 'Goodbye'?" and closed the Orange Orange and keyed the security codes to access the Castle.

Chuck came out of the employee restroom looking pale and tired. He'd just thrown up some half-dissolved Advil and the piece of toast Ellie had forced him to eat in lieu of a full physical (at least in his mind. She'd actually said "Chuck, you have to eat something in the morning. It's not good for you to start the day without something nutritious" so he'd opted for the toast, anything to avoid the incessant nag nag nagging).

He was pleased to see that the Green Shirts were all busy helping customers or stocking shelves, not just milling around trying to look busy. His Herders were either in the cage or out on calls except for Anna. She was gazing at him with unbridled lust in her eyes. Powerful men just melted her butter and Chuck was suddenly powerful and very sexy. Morgan was aghast at Chuck's sudden wielding of authority but Anna was thoroughly aroused, so much so that they had to clean the counter beside the coffee machine twice the previous day. Grrrrr, Chuck was sooo hot.

Chuck saw a customer looking over the BeastMaster in Casey's zone and wondered where his NSA stooge, ummm, handler was. Not like Casey to miss the opportunity to sell one of those overpriced and over-engineered monstrosities. He checked his cell to see if he had any messages but he'd turned it off. He only had 2 calls from Sarah the previous night.

"Well, crap," he thought. "We must have been called to a briefing and Casey couldn't reach me on my cell or leave me a note. This is not good." He didn't relish Beckman's sarcastic "How nice of you to join us, Mr. Bartowski" if he were late.

A woman came to the Herder Desk and asked Chuck for some help on programming her new cell phone. Chuck looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. She asked "Can you help me program my new cell my husband bought here last week?" but he heard "Can you … program… my new husband…?"

"Ah, no, I can't but let me get one of experts to help you." There was no way he was going to get involved with an idiot when he might be missing a briefing. Looking around he spotted the newest Nerd Herder, Bobby, and summoned him with a glare and a "come here right now" gesture.

"Help this nice lady program her ah, her husband. I have to go," and took off. Bobby looked at the woman and said "Ma'am, did I hear my boss correctly? You want help programming your husband? Are you from Stepford?"

Ignoring the looks from the customer and Bobby, Chuck shook his head trying to clear the buzzing in his ears.

Going to the front of the store he looked across the parking lot and saw the "Closed" sign on the Orange Orange door. Sarah was in the Castle and that meant Casey was in the Castle and he was out of the loop and late. Lacking a key to the Orange Orange, he went back to the BuyMore to the "secret passage" to the Castle from the BuyMore. "How the hell did the government do all this without anyone knowing?" he thought once again as he practically ran to the secret door into the reefer at the Orange Orange.

The Castle entrance was secured but he'd long ago figured out Casey's entry code – 20011980 – the date his hero Ronald Reagan had taken the oath of office as President. Casey had his picture prominently displayed in several places in his apartment and even one in his locker. Besides, he'd caught Casey in a careless moment and seen him input his code, so he wasn't really a genius, just good at memorizing numerical sequences. He apparently was not to be trusted with either a key to Orange Orange or the code to the security system and reefer door. Typical. He entered the code and hit the enter key.

"…So it's become apparent that the data stored in the Intersect requires refreshing and updating if we're to get maximum utility from the asset. To that end, you are required to bring the asset to our facility in Moab, Utah, for an updating of the data content. At that time…"

"Excuse me, General, but would it be possible to run Chuck, er, the asset, through a routine physical and psychiatric examination? If we're going to download another series of files, I think we need to make sure that the asset is physically and psychiatrically fit if we're to… maximize the utility and value of the flashes." Casey winced as Sarah kicked his shin. He glanced at her briefly but turned his attention to the screen.

"Major Casey, is there some concern about the asset's physical or mental health? Why wasn't I apprised of this before?" Beckman's image glared at the two agents.

"Oh, no, ma'am, it's just that Casey is concerned with the Team's performance and we want to be certain we're in the best shape possible for future missions" said Sarah.

"Yeah, we want to be sure we're not tagging around with a nut ball that could go postal on us at any moment" said Casey under his breath, earning him an "eat shit and die" glare form Sarah.

"I think that's an excellent idea, Agent Walker. The facility is fully equipped and staffed to handle such an undertaking. And it makes good sense to be certain one's equipment is in top shape to maximize performance and outcome. I'll see to it that the staff is advised and will schedule the exams after the download is completed. I'll stress to the staff that the asset has commitments and that speed is of the essence so that should minimize the amount of time he's off the grid and out of service."

Sarah had a hard time keeping her composure. Who the hell did Beckman think she was? Ok, she was a general but Chuck was a human being, not "one's equipment" and she really hated it when Chuck was referred to as "The Asset." He was a person, not an object. No matter what the General thought. He wasn't disposable, either. No one was disposing of her Chuck while she was alive to prevent it.

Chuck had entered Casey's code 3 times now and the door refused to open. He had trouble focusing on the keypad. Maybe Ellie was right; all that time spent looking at computer monitors **had **affected his vision. Maybe he was just getting old. His Dad had worn glasses and Ellie wore reading glasses. Maybe it was time to check the old peepers. He'd get contacts, of course.

Taking his time, he slowly entered each number –2-0-0-1-1-9-8-0- on the keypad and pressed enter. The access light on the panel turned a welcome green and the door hissed open a few inches.

Slipping quietly through the door and easing the hydraulic lock shut, he paused on the landing to hear if the teleconference had already started. With any luck, he'd slip in to his seat just in time. If not, well, the General's glare was fast becoming a normal fixture in his life. She'd just have to get over it. It wasn't like he was being paid or anything. In fact, the more he thought about it, it was actually costing him money to be the intersect. Those white shirts were not cheap and he couldn't very well ask Ellie what worked to get blood out of shirts. He'd never hear the end of it and he couldn't think of acceptable reasons for the blood. And he'd had to take vacation time to cover his extended absences on missions and he considered that a "cost" to him since he couldn't take regular vacations.

He could hear a woman talking but couldn't make out exactly what she was saying. Inching closer to the steps, he decided to listen until there was a lull in the conversation or change of subject so he could slip in and hopefully avoid the Generals wrath.

"I'll requisition a Lear for you and it'll be at John Wayne Airport tomorrow and will fly you to the Moab facility. Prepare the Intersect for transport and make the necessary adjustments to BuyMore records to show he's helping out another store. If he is reluctant or resists, you know what you have to do."

"Yeah, General, if he objects to his transfer to the facility I'll just shoot him…" said Casey grinning at Sarah, "He's going to freak out when he hears about…"

"NO, I mean no, if anyone shoots Chuck it'll be me. He trusts me. I can get close to him and it won't be so messy or traumatic," said Sarah. She was thinking that at least she would shoot him in the fanny not in the neck or crotch as Casey seemed prone to do. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of shooting Chuck. No matter how often he'd daydreamed about it. Maybe she'd just drop a few Sweet Dreams in his Red Bull…

He heard snatches of the conversation. "Prepare the Intersect for transport… If he is reluctant or resists…" "…I'll just shoot him…" "…If anyone shoots Chuck it'll be me. He trusts me. I can get close …won't be so messy…".

Chuck was horrified. He was being transferred to an underground bunker and he'd never see his friends or family again. And if he resisted, well, it seemed that Casey and Sarah were vying for just who was going to get to shoot him.

He turned and slipped back through the door, closing it as quietly as possible. No sense at all in letting them know he was on to their treachery. He couldn't believe the depths of their betrayal. He actually believed that Sarah felt something for him, even if she couldn't or wouldn't break her cover. Damn, he was a fool, a besotted fool. Well, he'd never make that mistake again. Mulder was right. "Trust No One".

OK. He was in deep fecal matter. He needed to get away. But he had to do so in such a way that no one would suspect he was running until he'd had time to put some distance between him and his former handlers now his probable assassins.

He had a car. He had already packed his bag. Ellie and her Captain were working and had planned to take a long weekend after their shifts ended so they were out of the picture. Safe. They couldn't be used as hostages or bait to flush him out.

He ran back to the BuyMore using the "secret passage" and went directly to the Nerd Herder desk. Consulting a phone directory, he called a cab company, asking to be picked up at Lou's. He had 10 minutes to kill so he pulled up his email and sent a short email to Sarah and a personal email for Ellie. It took a few seconds to set it so they would be delivered in 24 hours. He'd either be long gone by then or dead. He wasn't taking odds on which one it'd be. Not the way his luck was running.

Seeing that Casey hadn't returned from the briefing, he went out the loading bay door and walked calmly over to Lou's. Twenty minutes later he had the cab drop him a block from the apartment. He cut through the alley and entered the courtyard. After all this time he was pretty sure he'd figured out the blind spots in Casey's surveillance cameras and he moved from spot to spot using the Morgan door to enter his room.

He knew he'd have to leave everything behind. Everything. His cell phone, his wallet and ID, everything. He changed into a pair of old sneakers, clean jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed his duffel with his "vacation clothes"and his iPod and left the way he came. His cell and wallet were on his bed. His "special GPS watch" was someplace in Burbank, stuck down between the cushions of the back seat of the cab. Maybe it would buy him some time.

Back in the alley, he opened the trunk of his new "old Chevy" to stow his duffel. He'd better check and make sure the spare had air. No matter how anal Mr. Gottlieb was about the tires, most people (and service centers) forgot the spare.

There was something wrapped up in a towel in the wheel well. He pulled it out and unwrapped the towel. In pristine condition, he found a Colt Model 1911 .45 caliber pistol and two boxes of ammunition. There was apparently a lot he didn't know about Mr. Gottlieb.

Making sure the safety was on, he ejected the magazine, and cleared the chamber, noting that there was a round seated in the chamber ("One up the spout" as Casey used to say.) and 7 in the magazine. Catching the ejected round, he seated it in the magazine and inserted it. Watching Casey or Sarah do this hundreds of times apparently made an impression, even if it was subconscious.

He'd always felt uncomfortable around weapons but given his circumstances he realized he might just need to defend himself. Rewrapping the pistol in the towel, he placed it on the floor of the passenger seat and started the car. Hitting the PCH and turning north, he felt at peace.

He was not going to the bunker or the grave peacefully. No. Chuck Bartowski was damned certain of one thing. He would not go gently into the night.

Given the absence of further bleeding, a patient's condition may stabilize although symptoms may continue to present themselves and the patient's condition will not improve without the intervention of specific medical procedures. Morbidity and mortality rates for healthy young adults rarely exceed 10%. However, dependent upon the location of the hematoma, further trauma may result in escalating symptoms with concurrent rise in mortality due to the cascade effect.

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Standard disclaimer. I don't own Chuck, if I did, things would be different._

John Casey looked over at his partner. "Well, Walker, do you want the honors? Someone's got to tell the Geek to pack a bag and make his excuses. You do that and I'll hack into BuyMore Corporate and plant the assistance request and forward an email to Big Mike with a copy to Bartowski. That way he can send an email to Big Mike confirming his temporary assignment and not have to go into the store."

"Ok, we have a cover date tonight. I'll brief him then. And calm him down. You know he's going to freak out initially until he has time to accept that he's getting an update and download of current intel files and not going 'underground'. Oh, and Casey?"

"Yeah?" answered Casey with a raised eyebrow.

"It's not 'Geek', it's 'Nerd'. If you can't bring yourself to call him by name, at least get the designation correct. Chuck's a Nerd. Now in some circles, that's an honor, and Chuck revels in his Nerdness. It's who he is and what he is. He's not ashamed of it. He's quite proud of it, in fact. You wouldn't call your M16 a "gun", would you? No. You'd use its proper designation. Give him the same consideration. You might be surprised at his response."

Casey looked at her, smirked and emitted grunt #6 ("Don't bet on it" would be Chuck's interpretation).

Sarah just shook her head, logged off her secure network connection and headed upstairs to reopen the Orange Orange. She planned on broaching the Intersect data download when Chuck came to pick her up for their "date". She figured it would be better to get it out of the way early so if the night progressed as she sincerely hoped, Chuck wouldn't have any second thoughts about her motives when she jumped his bones. She blushed, pleasant thoughts. She and Chuck twixt the sheets.

"Use the tunnel, Casey, we don't need anyone seeing you leave the store".

Sarah reopened the store, fired up her laptop and checked her email. Nothing. Nothing from Chuck. He'd obviously been avoiding her, probably embarrassed and uncomfortable after his rant here. Well, some of the things he'd said were down-right mean but others… struck too close to the truth. She was using his feelings for her to manipulate him, control him, to keep him in the damned car. To keep him safe. But it was to keep him safe, not the damned information stored under those delicious curls.

She planned on broaching the Intersect data download when Chuck came to pick her up for their "date". She figured it would be better to get it out of the way early so if the night progressed as she sincerely hoped, Chuck wouldn't have any second thoughts about her motives when she jumped his bones. She blushed, pleasant thoughts. She and Chuck twixt the sheets.

Idly, she unconsciously began her straw construction project. She had to laugh. Chuck had teased her about her failure to build even the basic "straw cabin". She could still see his smile, the one that brought the butterflies in her stomach into full flight. She loved his smile. She loved him. And tonight, right briefing him on his trip to Moab and his download refresher, she'd debrief him.

Chuck was right, it was time to "seal the deal". And they would seal it and seal it and… well, as many times as it took for him to believe her feelings were real. Probably not the smartest thing she'd ever do but it was the right thing. She wanted this and had to believe Chuck still did.

Smiling to herself, she again tried to build the "straw cabin".

Casey slipped back into the BuyMore. He scanned the store but didn't see Chuck. He checked the NerdHerder board and saw that Chuck had scheduled himself out on a few routine maintenance calls for the remainder of the day. No biggie there. Flipping open his cell phone he checked on Chuck's GPS locater in his watch. Yep, moving downtown, in heavy traffic. Closing his cell, he moved back to his area. Maybe he could move another BeastMaster. He was short of his personal sales objective for the month. John Casey tolerated no less than maximum performance at any assigned task, not even on an idiotic cover job.

Elsewhere in Burbank…

Manolo de Bivar Fuentes drove his cab carefully, obeying all traffic laws and always yielding the right-of-way, never running a light. He did not need to attract the attention of La Policia. He was not exactly legal. He'd come to the United States through the Arizona desert, making his way westward until he'd found himself in Los Angeles.

He made contact with his mother's cousin in Burbank who fixed him up with a cab company owned by sympathetic Anglos who hired undocumenteds to drive their cabs. The pay was fair, the tips good and the bosses never complained as long as they drove safely and were always courteous to their fares. But they had one rule: get involved with the cops and you were gone.

Manolo could already speak passable English. In his native Central American country he'd been a liaison between some American DEA agents and the local drug cartel. The agents would get kickbacks in exchange for information on raids, stings and anti-drug operations. His relationship was a good one. Both sides paid him until the whole thing fell apart when the DEA agents and two cartel jefes were assassinated by the American CIA at a meeting he'd arranged. Suspicion and blame fell on him and he had to flee for his life. That damned blonde devil and her knives…

Northbound on the PCH

Chuck was systematically strategizing his escape.

First, misdirection. He knew he had a head start but it wouldn't last long. He figured he'd pop up on someone's CCTV and the NSA spooks would eventually stumble across it once the alarm sounded. He laughed out loud. "The Intersect has escaped! The Intersect has escaped! Oh shit, oh dear!" So he somehow had to make them look where he wasn't. That meant planting a trail of breadcrumbs leading them far off course.

He figured that the first step, leaving his GPS-enabled watch in the cab, would buy him a couple of hours. He'd rearranged the NerdHerder schedule board to show him out on routine maintenance calls so he had at least 5 hours until Casey figured something was up unless he actually watched the GPS map and noticed that his blip was constantly moving. And he'd left further delays in his apartment. He'd have to find a way to send Ellie some money for the increased utility bill.

After that, they would start looking, notice that his Herder was in the lot while "he" was apparently driving around Burbank. The next step would be calling his cell. When it went straight to voicemail, either Casey or Sarah, no… WALKER, not Sarah. It was Agent Walker who conspired to bury him alive in some underground facility and if he objected, wanted to be the one to execute him. Sarah was… Well, Sarah was beyond him now, out of reach but not out of mind. He never really got to know the Sarah Walker he fell in love with. She was just all part of an elaborate Potemkin village of emotions put out there for him to believe in. Well, no more. He shook his head. No sense dwelling on the past. He had his future to plan.

After the call to his cell, probably Casey would head on over to his apartment. Chuck was counting on him doing a quick visual and audio check. When it Casey finally tripped to his deception, he'd use the Morgan Door for a physical check. Once he'd confirmed Chuck's absence, one or both of them, would track down his watch. That would really piss them off. But it would buy him time before they blew the whistle on him.

He noticed he was down below a quarter tank of gas and started looking for an exit to fill up. This land yacht sucked up gas at an alarming rate.

Pulling into a convenience store he filled up the tank and went in to pay. Displayed on the counter were pre-paid "Go Phones". Hmmmm, misdirection.

He paid for his gas and purchased 4 of the Go-Phones and a quick-charge adapter for his car and a regular charger for a regular electrical outlet. A cigarette lighter would come in handy after all. The stoner behind the counter gave him a weird look.

"Dude, why do you need 4 phones? You can just buy more minutes when you run low."

The last thing he wanted to be was memorable so he replied "They're for my sister and her kids. Uncle Casey gotta bring presents, y'know? Hey, add these shades to the bill." He pulled a pair of aviator mirrors off the rack. "That sun is killing my eyes. And it's a long drive to Walnut Creek."

"Yeah, and the traffic is a bitch what with all the road construction. You probably won't make it tonight."

"Crap. I got a job interview tomorrow afternoon with an IT company up there. I didn't count on construction delays. Is there an Internet café around here where I can tap their WiFi and email them that I need to reschedule?"

"Yeah, take the next exit and you'll come to a red light. Turn left and there's a place in the strip mall."

"Thanks. I'm Casey Walker. I'll stop by on my way back to L.A. and let you know how I did. It's been nice talking to you. Thanks for the directions." Casey Walker… he laughed to himself. Misdirection. Wait until they try to interrogate this guy. Waving to the clerk, he left the store, put his bag on the seat and went in search of the strip mall.

Now for a make-over.

He'd seen the CCTV camera behind the clerk mounted on the ceiling. He should have shot them the bird. Well, they'd see his ball cap, his shades and probably would buy the Walnut Creek comment. Now he had to make certain they took the bait.

Putting one phone on the charger and locking up the car, he set off in search of a barber shop. He had some ideas and only needed a few things to radically change curly-headed ,twenty-something into Chuck Bartowski, old fart. After all, he couldn't whack inches off his 6'2" frame, couldn't change his eye color with what he could readily attain. No, the one thing he could control about his appearance was his hair.

He found just what he was looking for. Patterson's Barber shop, complete with rotating barber pole. There were two old guys sitting in the row of chairs against the wall reading "Field and Stream" or the local yokel. The barber smiled at him and slapped the sheet over the chair cleaning off anything he'd missed from the last customer and motioned him into the chair. Wrapping the tissue paper collar around his neck and snapping the sheet around him, he asked, "What'll it be?"

"My Guard Unit got called up and I have to report in. Can't go looking like some frikkin' hippy, but I don't need white walls either. Just shorten it up all the way around." He sighed. Sarah would miss his curls. Screw her. She was ready to put him down like an animal that'd outlived its usefulness.

"On second thought, lose the curls, too. Don't need the Top getting on my case for my hair. I'm not his favorite troop."

"Right," said the barber. "I know just what you need and I really know what you mean. Let me tell you about…"

Ten bucks, twenty minutes and several war stories later, a newly shorn Chuck waved to the barber and headed for the K-Mart the barber had directed him to.

He picked up some small shipping boxes, some kraft wrapping paper, strapping tape and an assortment of Sharpies. Heading for the hair care section, he spotted exactly what he needed. He could change his hair. And he could change his age.

He walked back to his car, put his stuff in the trunk, put another of the prepaid cells on the charger and walked over to the internet café. He sweet-talked the girl behind the counter into using one of the store's laptops, purchased a large Blue Mountain Jamaica and settled in to a booth in the back. He pulled up Map Quest and looked at the map of the PCH from LA to San Diego. He specifically wanted small towns. Very small. About 75 miles apart but still close to the PCH. Copying down the information, he closed out Map Quest and googled Greyhound.

The barber had told him how to find the local bus station. Now he had to check schedules and see if what he had brainstormed was possible. It was. And it was surprisingly easy.

Closing out the Greyhound site he accessed the BuyMore Corporate site and logged on using Lester's username and password. Going to the company's intranet, he accessed the emails using Big Mike's data. Few employees knew that the store manager could use a master protocol and override logon requirements and actually read employee email. Big Mike didn't know he could do it. He'd never gotten around to reading his procedures manual. So Chuck read it for him and emailed him the important manager stuff so Big Mike "waste his valuable time and talents".

He accessed his own email account. There was a copy of an email informing Big Mike that Chuck would be covering the NerdHerd supervisor position for the immediate future in Palm Springs. Personal mileage would be paid and lodging provided at company expense. Per Diem would be paid at the standard rate.

Damned Beckman thought of everything. Get him out of the way and allay suspicion of his friends, employer and family for "the immediate future." He wondered how long it would take before someone asked "Whatever happened to Chuck?" By then it would be too late. Casey and Walker would be long gone and any record of their existence would be erased by a CIA cleanup crew that would cover the government's ass and tidy up any "loose ends." And he would either be locked up in a deep dungeon or decaying in a shallow grave in the desert somewhere.

He was tired. Weary, actually. He had spotted a sign for a locally owned motel and headed over to get a room. He could afford it and he needed a bathroom to work his miracle.

The old man at the desk asked for a credit card and ID. Chuck gave him the $50.00 for the room and a $20.00 dollar credit card and a $20.00 ID. The man pocketed the money and gave him a room key.

"It's in the back. I figure you might be meeting a lady friend so no one will be able to spot your car, or her's for that matter, from the road. Just consider it a favor from one player to another."

_Chuck got in his car and shook his head. He had no plans for a lover's tryst, not anymore. Putting the car in gear he drove to the back of the motel parked and unloaded his stuff. He had a lot to do and precious little time to do it if he was to get any rest at all._


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you all for the reviews. I've decided to boycott watching episodes of Chuck until this puppy is done. For the record, I've not seen an episode since Christmas. Too much of a hassle wrestling the remote away from my significant other, She Who Must Not Be Named. So if any plot devices, near dialogues, etc. appear congruent with any actual TV episodes it's only because the brilliance shared by myself and those who write for Chuck for remuneration. Great minds travel in the same direction. Any errors, however, are purely mine Once again, I don't own Chuck. If I did, things would be different..

Chuck stepped out of the shower tub and towel-dried his hair, which didn't take all that long since it was so short. Maybe he'd keep this length for convenience sake but for right now he was just glad it was short. Reading the directions twice to be sure he didn't wreak havoc on his hair, he proceeded to dye his hair gray. Once it was dry he would brush a little Grecian Formula through it to bring out some brown highlights.

He looked at the man in the mirror. Oh, crap. Is this what I'm going to look like when I'm 45 or 50? Well, the prospects of getting old were decreasing with every passing minute.

Throwing on a t-shirt and shorts, he checked the charges on the cell phones. Doing a little programming, he turned the phone off. No sense wasting the charge when it wouldn't be needed until morning. He put the second phone on the charger.

He was tired. He didn't even turn on the TV for company. He just repacked his bag so that in the morning all he had to do was brush his teeth and get dressed for the day. He wanted an early start. More time spent distancing himself from Her and Her partner. More time spent searching for a sanctuary that probably didn't exist. The NSA and CIA were too powerful, too pervasive, for one man to slip off the grid unnoticed – at least not for long.

The only thing he had to do was prepare the package for shipment.

He glanced at his watch and realized it was in the cab. He'd been so busy and preoccupied with survival that he had no concept of time. Flipping on the TV and flipping through the dials he spotted the cable systems "home page" sporting the time, temperature and weather forecast. Only 7:00pm but he was tired. He called the desk, set a wake up call for 6am. The "player" assured him that would be sufficient time for him to have his "honey" out and on her way.

Only one task remained. Something he never figured on doing. Never figured he'd need to do. He unwrapped the pistol, checked that the safety was engaged and slipped it under the pillow. He turned out the light and was asleep within minutes.

John Casey was enjoying a peaceful evening. He'd checked on Bartowski when he came in from his shift at the BuyMore. Flicking on the audio in Chuck's room he heard the sounds of the shower. Figures. He and Walker have a big 'cover date' planned. Bet the gee… er… Nerd… wanted to get under the covers with Walker. It was obvious to him that Sarah Walker was hopelessly compromised. Well, as long as it doesn't jeopardize the mission, he'd keep silent about it. But if it did, he'd report to Beckman and she'd be whisked away as far as possible from the asset.

Sipping his whiskey, he flipped through the channels until he found the History Channel. Good. A war documentary. Satisfied, he turned up the volume and immersed himself in WWII.

Sarah Walker was pacing the floor. Chuck was late. She called his cell and got his voicemail again. She'd give him 15 minutes and then she'd call Casey and ask him to check and see if he'd left yet. He probably fell asleep. Hmmmm, that had possibilities. She imagined herself driving over to the apartment dressed only in her trench coat and a smile and waking Chuck up in a way he'd never expect. Definitely had possibilities.

Fifteen minutes later she flipped open her cell and called Casey.

"Casey, Chuck's a no-show. Did he make it home yet?"

"Yeah. I checked the audio when I came in. He was in the shower. I'm sure he's on his way. He was downtown all day doing maintenance calls. Traffic has been a bitch with all the construction. I'm sure he's tied up. Give him a call on his cell."

"I just tried that and it went straight to voice mail - again. Can you flip on your monitor and check? Please? It's not like him to be late or not answer his cell. He should have seen all my calls and at least called back, especially if he was going to be late." Sarah tried not to sound like a whining girl friend. Have to maintain the cover, she thought.

"Ok. Wait one."

"Walker, we might have a problem. The shower's still running and it's been a little less than 2 hours since I checked. I'm going over there and see if everything's ok. I'll call you back in a few minutes."

Casey grabbed his pistol and tucked it into the waistband of his pants and covered it with his t-shirt. Loping across the courtyard he opened the Morgan Door and called for Chuck.

"Bartowski, you alright? Chuck?" No answer. The water was still running. Fearing a fall in the shower, he climbed through the window noticing immediately that Chuck's wallet and cell phone were on his dresser. The clothes he'd worn to work were on the bed and floor. His beloved High tops had been toed off and kicked across the floor.

Pulling out his weapon he eased the bathroom door open. Empty. The shower was running cold water. The hot water had never been turned on. There were no towels littering the floor. He really had a bad feeling about this.

He called his partner. "Walker, your boyfriend's not here. His wallet and cell phone are on his dresser and his clothes are strewn around like he'd just gotten undressed. His shoes are here. But get this, the shower was running, straight cold water. I think he's bolted for some reason. Better get over here. Now. I'll wait for you before calling this in to Beckman. She's going to shit a brick."

Sarah didn't even bother acknowledging Casey. She flipped her cell shut, grabbed her purse, car keys and gun and ran out the door.

"Jesus, does no one say goodbye anymore?"

Sarah broke her previous record for getting to Chuck's apartment from her hotel. She parked her car and ran though the courtyard where Casey was standing at the open door of the apartment.

"Walker, he left his sister a note on the counter and a $20.00 bill."

Sarah read the note. "Ellie, sorry about using the water. Here's $20.00 for the utility bill. I love you, sis. Chuck."

Always thinking of others and apologizing for imagined slights. She doubted Eleanor Bartowski would care about something so trivial compared to the loss of her brother.

"Ok, Casey, what do we know? Chuck's watch is not here, is it? Have you tried checking the GPS locator? We don't know how far he's gone but how far can he get in 2 hours?" Sarah was assuming that he'd worked until normal quitting time then driven home. But wait, the Herder wasn't parked in front, was it?

"Casey, I didn't see the Herder out front. He has no transportation so he's limited to cabs or buses. You check his locator and I'll see if anything is missing. It might give us a clue to what he doing, where he's going."

Casey just grunted. He should have done that immediately. He hated to admit it but he was a little rattled by how easily the Nerd had outsmarted him. And he couldn't help feeling a little proud of Chuck. Devious little shit had the makings of a capable operative. Going back to his apartment he checked his laptop.

Chuck's locator showed he was still downtown but on the move in a vehicle judging by the rate of movement. He and Walker would just zip downtown and retrieve their missing asset. And boy-howdy, Walker was gonna peel off a large portion of Chuck's hide for this little stunt. He almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Sarah checked Chuck's bedroom. Nothing really missing. His usual stuff was here. In the bathroom she opened the medicine cabinet. His shaving gear and tooth brush were missing. She also noticed a lot of bloody tissues in his waste can. She dumped the can onto the tile floor and was surprised to find 2 empty bottles of Advil among the bloody tissues. Blood, Advil. Maybe Chuck's bloody nose wasn't caused by the slap this morning at the Orange Orange. Maybe something more serious was going on.

Picking up Chuck's cell phone, she hit "redial". A Latina voice answered "Burbank Cab Company". A cab company?

"Yes, this is Detective Green of the Burbank Police Department. This number is the last number dialed by a missing person. This is his cell phone. Can you check your log and tell me the pickup and destination?" Sarah knew that cab companies logged all calls with pick-up and destination to cut down on prank calls and record fare information and cab assignment.

"Yes, Detective. That call came in at 10:40 this morning. The pickup was in front of Lou's Deli in the LargeMart Plaza and the destination was…" Sarah was surprised. The address was 2 blocks east of Chuck's apartment.

"Is the driver still on duty? We'd like to ask him some questions and confirm the identity of his passenger. It would be a great help to our investigation and in returning this man to his family. He is ill and needs medical attention." She had no idea how close her comments were to the truth.

"Yes, Manolo is still driving. He's on his way to the Marriot to pick up a fare going to the airport. I just dispatched him. Our livery colors are green and red and it's cab #2324."

"Thanks. You've been a great help." She snapped the phone closed just as Casey stuck his head in through the window.

"Walker, his locator shows he's downtown in a vehicle heading towards the Metro Center. Lock this place down and let's move. Time to go pick up your date." He threw her his GPS tracker and headed toward his Suburban. He wouldn't want to be Bartowski when Walker got done with him for scaring her this way. Still, he was impressed with the gee.. er… Nerd. He was showing real potential for operations.

Casey drove the suburban like Sarah drove her Porsche – full out. Sarah told Casey to start looking for a green and red cab because they were getting close. She hadn't taken her eyes off the map with it's blinking blip. She had a bad feeling about all this.

Casey pulled up beside the cab at a red light. Yep, #2324. He planned on pulling it over just after they cleared the intersection.

Manolo lit a cigarette and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. These damned lights were long. Glancing over at the big black Suburban beside him he noticed the passenger. Madre de Dios. La diabla rubia. He panicked. The American CIA had tracked him down and was tying up loose ends. He floored the cab, turned right against the light and sped down the street. He had to lose them in traffic. He was a dead man otherwise.

The cab's actions caught Casey unprepared. He accelerated into the intersection and turned right in front of another cab. Horns blaring, Casey shot down the street following the cab.

"Don't lose him, Casey. There's something not right about this." Shouted Sarah.

"I'm not. You just hang on and be ready when I nail him." Casey loved a high speed chase almost as much as gunplay. The cab turned left down a side street and Casey reefed the big Suburban hard to the left and punched it. And then slammed on his brakes.

The cab had stopped, nearly rear-ending the last car in a long line of traffic halted by construction. Sarah was out of the truck and standing about 5 feet behind and to the left of the driver's door in a classic Weaver stance, her weapon pointed at the head of the driver.

"Get the fuck outta the cab and on your belly right now!" she shouted. The door opened and the driver fell on his belly and tried to crawl over to her but wasn't having much luck since he was also trying to keep his hands raised. The blonde assassin! He remembered those flashing knives, the blood spurting and the bodies falling. All dead in less time than it took to remember it. And the look in her eyes now, even more deadly and cold. The eyes of his killer.

"No me matan. Madre de dios, no me matan." Casey ran over and pulled out a pair of zip ties securing the driver's hands behind his back and zipping his ankles tightly. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. The guy had shit his pants!

"Secure here, Walker. I'll check out the cab."

He reached in and turned off the ignition and pulled out the keys. There was no passenger in the cab so he went to pop the trunk. He dreaded what he might find when he opened the trunk. He pointed his pistol at the trunk deck and lifted it. No body. He sighed in relief. He half expected to find Bartwoski's bullet-riddled corpse. He closed the trunk and opened the rear door. Nothing on the floor. He moved his hand along between the seats. He pulled out Chuck's watch.

"Hey Walker, I found Chuck's watch pushed down between the rear seat cushions. Nothing else, though." Bartowski had blind-sided 2 of the best agents in the spy game and gained valuable time on them. He definitely had operational possibilities if he could just cool it with the girly squeals. And if they could find him before Fulcrum did or Beckman put out a sanction on him.

Sarah whipped out a picture of Chuck from her inside coat pocket. "Have you seen this man? Where did you take him?"

Manolo remembered the fare. A nice man. A decent tip.

"I picked him up in front of Lou's Deli at the LargeMart Plaza. He looked sick. He was sweating and his nose was bleeding. He gave me an address and that was all. He was upset. He was mumbling about trusting no one. About how he would never see his family and friends again. How he'd been betrayed. I dropped him off and went on to the next fare. I didn't see where he went."

The information was the same as the dispatcher had given her just much more specific and enlightening. She was beginning to get a very bad feeling about all this. She leaned over him and looked at his face closely for the first time.

"I know you. Three years ago. You were the go-between for those DEA traitors and the Cartel. I let you escape then. You were small fry." She pulled out a knife from one of her many hidden sheaths and Manolo saw the knife and promptly fainted. She shook her head and cut the zip ties.

"Casey, put him back in his cab. He checks out plus he gave me some missing pieces of the puzzle. Let's get back to the Castle and contact General Beckman. She's going to shit a brick over this." She sniffed, wrinkling her nose. My God, what was that smell?

_It was 9:30pm. Chuck had been off the grid for almost 12 hours. Where was he? Was he safe? The cab driver said he was sick, confused. Mumbling about betrayal and never seeing… Did he think tomorrow was an elaborate cover for his extraction? But he didn't know about tomorrow. Or did he?_


	6. Chapter 6

Kirk Griffin was drunk. Blitzed. Three sheets to the wind. Shit-faced. He'd been downsized, an IT professional caught in the recession. Losing his job had been the last straw. His girl friend decided that he was just using her for sex and dumped him and moved out leaving Kirk with an outrageous long distance bill, his clothes strewn all over the place and his plasma TV and DVR MIA. Kirk had intended to say the dreaded "L Word" and try to move their relationship a little further down the road but she'd beaten him to it. Well, obviously she didn't feel about him the way he felt about her. And now he'd lost his job. They'd been nice about it, explaining he was last hired and that seniority was the guideline they were following. They'd given him a month's severance pay, a letter of recommendation and then showed him the way out.

Well, he didn't need a DUI to add to his problems so he pulled into the lot of a shopping mall and locked his car and put his head back and went to sleep. He'd head on home in the morning. He'd be sober by then.

Casey dropped Sarah off at Chuck's apartment to pick up her car. They'd meet back at the Castle to brief General Beckman of the situation. Neither was looking forward to that discussion. They deserved an ass-chewing for letting Chuck slip out from underneath their surveillance. Sarah wondered if this was Casey's last hurrah as an agent. His performance had been less than stellar of late. He was getting sloppy. They both were. They'd taken their asset for granted, gotten comfortable with the routine and gotten lax in the performance of their duties. Maybe this was a career wake-up call.

About 2 minutes into the briefing with General Beckman and Casey was wondering if a human being's head could really swell up and explode. General Diane NMI Beckman was livid. Her face was scarlet and Casey was seriously concerned she might have a stroke.

"You two miserable excuses for agents are a disgrace to your agencies. How could you let the single most important and irreplaceable intelligence asset this country has ever had just … just…"

Now Casey was sure she was having a stroke. Scarlet was turning purple. He didn't think she inhaled during the entire diatribe. And now she was sputtering. A damned general in the service to the United States did not sputter.

"I have to inform the President and the Joint Chiefs of this situation. I want you two idiots ready to appear in front of my desk as if by magic if I so require it. How in the world a 28 year old computer geek could outsmart the premiere agents of your respective agencies is beyond my understanding. I'm issuing a sanction order on the asset to be carried out without reservation or consideration but with extreme prejudice. Be glad I don't issue a similar order on the two of you."

Casey couldn't help himself. He needed to get control of this interview before they were both either shit-canned and on the street or arrested and charged with gross negligence or worse. And before the General sent an assassin after Chuck.

"Begging the General's pardon, ma'am, but the term is not 'geek'. It's Nerd. And yes, we were outfoxed at every turn by a Nerd. A brilliant nerd with an IQ off the charts and no reason whatsoever to do what we demand of him other than the highest level of patriotism and devotion to his country. We seem to forget that Chuck Bartowski is not a paid agent of the United States government. He did not willingly enlist in the service of his government. His government could care less about him as an individual or a citizen of the nation we have sworn to serve. His government has shredded his constitutional rights, threatened him with imprisonment without trial and will probably execute him when he can be either replaced by your precious Gamma Intersect or you feel he's become a liability or superfluous."

The General was now totally purple and the veins on her forehead and neck were engorged and distended. Oh well, Casey thought, I'm getting too old for this shit anyway. Maybe it's time to go back to flying or get out all together. In for a penny, in for a pound. He went on.

"Something's mentally or physically wrong with Bartowski. We've seen the physical evidence. We need to find him and fix whatever's wrong with him. He's not a liability. He's an American Hero and deserves our respect and support, not an unmarked grave. If you sanction Bartowski you're no better than the people we're fighting against and you're clearly not worthy of wearing the uniform of a General in the US Army."

Sarah was stunned by Casey's impassioned defense of Chuck in the face of the General's wrath. Her heart swelled with pride as Casey described Chuck's devotion to country, and she looked at her partner in a new light. He actually _respected_ Chuck. She put her hand on Casey's forearm and gave a gentle squeeze of support.

"General Beckman, give us 24 hours to find Chuck. That's all we'll need," said Sarah. "If we can't find him, I doubt your team of hit men will be able to. After all, they're killers, not agents. So give us 24 hours."

"You're both so obviously compromised by your personal feelings for the asset that I doubt you'll be of any use to either Agency in the future. Take your 24 hours. After that I suggest you start reviewing career options for the immediate future. I will brief the President and Joint Chiefs and be on a plane and in L.A. by mid-morning." The image of the logo of the NSA replaced the General's face.

"Well, that went well, doncha think, Walker?"

"Yeah, Casey. You did good. You really…"

"Ewwwww, don't go all mushy on me, partner. We need to get our heads on straight, go find our boy and bring him home. We need a plan of action and we need to be ready to implement it as soon as the sun comes up. The Wicked Witch of the East is coming. And boy is she pissed. The clock's ticking. We need to get our asses in gear. "

The wake up call exactly at 6:00am but Chuck had already been awake for the past 30 minutes. He'd showered, wrapped his packages and addressed them in compliance with the instructions he'd seen on the web. he wiped down every place he might have touched for fingerprints just to make it harder to confirm his identity should any government employees come looking for him. He was almost out the door when he remembered something. He walked across the room and pulled the pistol from under the pillow. He stuck it behind his back in the waistband of his jeans and covered it with his t-shirt. He was ready to go.

By 6:45am he'd gone through the drive-in at Mickey D's and eaten breakfast. He was sitting in the parking lot of the Greyhound Bus station waiting for it to open at 7am.

Sarah and Casey had gotten little sleep. They were going around in circles. They had no idea why Chuck had run. They couldn't locate any evidence that he'd left town on public transportation. She'd called Morgan and asked if he'd seen Chuck but he hadn't. She had no way of contacting Ellie and she didn't have anything more to go on. She decided to go back to the apartment and go through it again. Maybe she missed something. She knew for certain that she missed Chuck. And the general was right about one thing, she was totally and without reservation compromised beyond redemption. She totally in love with Chuck Bartowski.

When Sarah crossed the courtyard to Chuck's apartment she was surprised to see an older woman with a walker knocking on the door.

"Hi, I'm Sarah. Chuck's girlfriend. He's out of town on business but can I help you with something?"

"You're Chuck's girlfriend. Oh, I'm so pleased he has someone. He's such a nice boy. He always helped my husband and I carry our groceries up to our apartment. And he never would take any money. Just said he was doing the right thing by his neighbors."

"That's my Chuck. So why do you need to see him? Is there something I can help you with?"

"I found another set of keys to the car and wanted to give them to him."

"I beg your pardon? Chuck doesn't own a car."

"Oh, but you're mistaken, dear. He bought our car yesterday. Said he needed a car for a trip, a vacation he said. But I think he was running away from something or someone. I would have given him the car but he insisted on paying for it. He was always so nice to my husband, George, before he died."

Sarah now had a piece of the puzzle. Chuck had a car. He had transportation. They had a lead at last.

Getting the information about the car proved a 15 minute exercise in patience. Apparently Mrs. Gottlieb had the initial symptoms of Alzheimer's and every fact about the car was accompanied by an anecdote. Finally she had all the information she would need and helped the woman back up to her apartment.

She was on the phone to Casey as she sprinted to her car. "Casey, Chuck bought a car yesterday. A 1987 Chevy Impala, 2-door, yellow, registered to a George Gottlieb. Run a check on it. I'm on my way back to the Castle".

She was still mulling over Mrs. Gottlieb's comment. "Running away from something or someone." Her heart ached for Chuck. She knew who and what he was running from. She was part of it.

Chuck was first through the door when the terminal opened. He gave the clerk his package and asked that it be sent to the San Diego terminal and held there. He explained that someone from the BuyMore store in San Diego would be there later tomorrow to pick up the package. He paid for the firm-to-firm delivery and returned to his car. The second step in his misdirection campaign was in place or rather on a bus south-bound for San Diego but stopping at every little Podunk town with a bus station. The clerk had tried to convince him to use the express route but Chuck told him that the parts weren't going to be needed until the following day and the local route was fine. Better than fine. The longer the better.

Getting back on the main highway he headed north again. Instead of Canada maybe he'd turn east and check out Nevada and then maybe head down to Texas and the Gulf. Maybe even as far south as New Orleans. He had no schedule, no destination, no time constraints. He popped in his ear buds and set his iPod to shuffle, rolled down the windows and enjoyed the morning drive. He'd make the call to Sarah in an hour or so. He wanted to give the bus time to get further south.

When Sarah got back to the Castle Casey was already in action. "I've check out the car and George Gottlieb. No known intelligence ties. Medically retired Marine officer. Diabetes and heart disease. Died last month of a massive coronary. Survived by his wife who still lives above the Bartowski apartment."

"I've put out a BOLO for the car. Any sightings will be relayed to us here. Played the "National Security" card. I figure he'll head south to Mexico and try to get lost down there. He's probably half-way down the Baja by now but we'll see. I've ordered a scan of all the CCTV tapes for the time window he might have crossed the border. They'll scan for the car. We might get lucky, who knows. He's obviously sick. You heard the cab driver's description and you saw the bloody tissues at his apartment. Maybe he holed up for the night before trying to cross the border."

Sarah nodded. Mexico. They always went to Mexico figuring once across the border, home free. Fat chance of that.

The email program on Chuck's computer counted down the last few nanoseconds and transmitted the emails Chuck had written to Sarah and to Ellie's hospital email address.

Sarah was examining a map of the road system in Baja California when her email icon blinked. Thinking it was Beckman or something related to their search she opened the email. It was addressed to her at her CIA email address and it was from Casey S. Pita.

She opened the email and gasped. It was from Chuck!

Casey looked at her, eyes narrowing. "Anything pertinent?"

"It's from Chuck. He programmed a delay so I'd get it now giving him time to get away." She read the first paragraph and couldn't continue for a few seconds. Tears welled up and she fought to keep her composure. Focus, Walker.

Agent Walker:

_Hopefully by the time you get this I'll be someplace beyond the immediate reach of you and Agent Casey. I have no illusions that any sanctuary I find will be anything other than temporary. _

_I thought I had missed a briefing. I got to the Castle late and overheard you, Beckman and Casey. Just snatches but the parts, the important parts, well, I can still hear them in my mind. I can still hear you most of all._

_Beckman plans to extract me and ordered me killed if I resisted. Casey asked for the job and you "outbid" him by telling the General you could get close to me because I trusted you and you could shoot me and it wouldn't be so messy._

_Does the CIA give out medals for performance? If they do, you deserve the highest honors. You used all your talents and training, first to get me to trust you and then to make me fall in love with you. The funny thing is, you didn't have to try all that hard. You didn't have to try at all._

_A love sick geek is easy to control. That's part of seduction training, isn't it? You learned your lessons well. I should have realized early on that any feelings I thought you might have for me were merely wishful thinking on my part and simply manipulation on yours . _

_Don't worry about Intersect security. The Intersect will not fall into enemy hands. Not yours orFulcrum', or any other government agency, foreign or domestic. I will not be taken alive. I will not betray my country even though my country has betrayed me._

_C. Bartowski_

Casey stood behind Sarah, his hands on her shoulders, and read the email when Sarah couldn't continue.

"Well, now we know why he ran." He could think of nothing else to say. He thought back to the conversation. Damn you, Bartowski, why do you have to be so…so noble. It will get you killed.

He gently gripped Sarah's shoulders as she sobbed. God, sometimes he hated his job.

This was one of those times.


	7. Chapter 7

Casey racked his brain for a solution to this disaster. Walker would be useless for a bit. Chuck's email had really rattled her cage. He couldn't say he was unaffected but then he wasn't the one in love with the Intersect. This is the exact situation the rules and regulations were designed to prevent.

He mentally listed the things they knew. Chuck had a car. They had the description and a BOLO out on it.

He had delayed the email 24 hours to give himself a head start. The email said "beyond the immediate reach" and implied it was temporary. He's ordered border surveillance once they had the vehicle description but with that kind of head start, he had little hope that they'd catch him at the border.

Casey read the email again. Casey S. Pita. Casey's Pain-in-the-Ass. He smiled. The kid had class. And a weird sense of humor.

Email! He probably sent one to his sister. If he broke security and spilled the beans about Casey and Walker their cover was blown. He knew Ellie. Where her brother was concerned she had all the instincts of a pissed-off momma grizzly protecting her cub. God only knew what she'd do.

Sarah Walker walked back to the computer workstation. Her eyes were red and puffy but she had pulled herself together and was back in the game. They had to find Chuck as soon as possible to bring this disaster to an end. An end that didn't involve Chuck being killed. She had reconciled herself to losing him. There was no way on earth he'd ever trust her again, let alone love her. Why did she wait so long to admit her feelings and tell him the truth? It was too late now.

"Walker, if he sent you an email he probably, no, he definitely sent one to his sister. He didn't leave any goodbye note at the apartment and Chuck wouldn't do that to Ellie. So that means he sent her a delayed email also. We have to find it and delete it. She and Devon are out of town for the weekend so we can at least minimize the damage to our covers."

Casey dialed a number from memory, explained that he needed an email account cracked, provided the email address and hung up the phone.

Sarah raised an eyebrow and looked at Casey. "You know Ellie's email address?"

"Sometimes it pays to listen to the Nerd. He explained to me once how email addresses could be spoofed after he helped a customer explain to his wife that he was not having an email affair with some bimbo names Bubbles. He used Ellie's email address as an example. Spam came in handy for once."

His cell rang. "Good. Thanks, I owe you one." Disconnecting, he said, "IT guy deleted the email from her account and the server. We dodged the bullet this time."

Ellie routinely forwarded her email address to Devon's laptop when they were going to be out of town together. It was a link to Chuck and the hospital if anything came up while they were away. Chuck's email popped up in Devon's inbox.

Chuck was enjoying the drive. It was a sunny day and the problems in his life seemed far removed. He figured he was far enough north and the bus was far enough south that he could make his contact call. He'd been around the team long enough to know that tracking a cell phone location was child's play. Since he knew how heavily spies relied on electronic intelligence gathering, he planned to use their reliance to his advantage.

He used the 2nd prepaid cell to call the number of the cell in the package in the Greyhound bus's storage locker. It rang and call forwarded Chuck's call to Sarah Walker's cell phone. Miles to the south, Sarah's cell phone rang.

Not recognizing the number, she answered carefully. "Hello. What number are you calling?" She glanced at the display and wrote down the number on a pad and slid it over to Casey. He entered the number into a database. A prepaid cell phone. Well, it didn't matter whether it was prepaid or not. He tapped a few more keys and the tower location servicing the call was displayed on a map. Just south of L.A?

"Hello, Agent Walker. I'm sure you've noticed I'm not around by now."

She broke out into her most radiant smile, the special smile she only had for Chuck. "Chuck! Oh, thank God! Where the hell are you? Do you know what you've done? You misunderstood everything. It was not a planned extraction at all. Where are…"

"Agent Walker, I heard. I misunderstood nothing. Nothing. I heard your plans. Resist and die. And you volunteered to be my executioner."

Sarah was frantic. Tears welled up and blurred her vision. "Please, Chuck. Please. This is all a big misunderstanding. We were just going to escort you to a refresher session on new data for the damned Intersect, that's all. Please, please tell me where you are, I'll come and get you. Please. You have no idea how much danger you're in."

Casey had never heard his partner use that tone of voice. He'd never heard her plead with someone. He'd never seen the look of abject desolation on her face. He gently pried the phone from her hand. "Listen to me, Bartowski, you need to come back in. You need to let us explain just what it was you think you heard. It's not what you think. But since you ran, Beckman's ordered a sanction on you. She gave us 24 hours to get you back but we're running out of time. Please, Chuck…"

Turning his back on Sarah he walked back into the detention area. "Now listen carefully, Chuck. I'm not going to lie to you. Walker is a mess. She's falling apart. She's broken the most important rule in the spy rule book: Never fall in love with your asset. Chuck, if anything happens to you, it'll be the end of her. And I don't mean her career. That's pretty much down the tubes anyway."

"Talk to me, Chuck. What's happened? You've been acting strange, even for you, for the last few days. Did something happen? Walker found all the bloody tissues in your bathroom. You're having nosebleeds and headaches. She's scared to death. She almost killed a cab driver today over your damned watch. That was a smooth move by the way. I gotta give you points for that one." Still no response.

Casey knew he was losing control of the call. "Dammit Bartowski, the woman loves you. And you love her. Don't do this to her. Don't do this to yourself."

"Casey, you both can go to hell. I know what I heard. As for the headaches and nosebleeds, well what can I say. I didn't stay in the car and I got my ass kicked. Go figure. I'm going to hang up now. Good bye, Casey." [CLICK]

Frustrated and angry, Casey almost threw the cellphone at the cell wall. He only stopped because it was their only link to Chuck.

"Sarah, remember when we hit that dry hole at the warehouse and I gave Chuck such a reaming? Well, turns out your boy pulled one of his stunts and didn't stay in the car. Apparently we flushed out the bad guy and drove him right to Chuck. He didn't go into detail but I'm betting he got tagged and that's been the cause of his headaches, shitty attitude and nosebleeds. He didn't tell us because, well, because we never remember who we're dealing with. He can't _not_ help out if we're in trouble or the mission is in danger of failing."

Sarah looked stricken. All the puzzle pieces of Chuck's erratic behavior suddenly clicked into place.

Frowning, She motioned Casey over to the workstation. She'd been following the GPS monitor while Casey spoke with Chuck. "Casey, according to this, Chuck's just 30 miles south of L.A., moving fast. The call was passed southward from one cell tower to another while you had him on the phone."

"I'll contact CHP and have them step up patrols on that section of the highway. Maybe they'll spot Chuck's car. You stay here and monitor things and I'll see about scrounging up a chopper and fly down see what I can. We should have this wrapped up in 45 minutes. If he calls back, keep him on the phone as long as you can. "

Sighing, "Sarah, you need to talk to him. Tell him how you feel. Tell him how you want to have a real relationship and how much you… Oh, hell. I'm no good at this mushy crap. If he does call back, relay me the tower coordinates. I'll be in the air in 10 minutes and I'll be heading south along the coast towards San Diego."

Kirk Griffin awoke with a huge hang over and an ungodly taste in his mouth. The sun was streaming through the windshield and he was sweating like a pig. He was still drunk but felt well enough to drive back to his apartment. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed out to the main highway. He rolled down the windows and turned on the radio. The wind hitting him in the face was refreshing and he increased his speed unconsciously. He congratulated himself on having the good sense not to drive last night. Three hours' sleep wasn't enough to sober him up but at least he wasn't weaving around like a drunken sailor.

Chuck debated calling Sarah again. If only to hear her voice. He couldn't believe she was still peddling that crap about loving him. As if he'd believe anything she said after what he'd heard in the Castle. He still loved her, would always love her but hopefully a little less each day until he could move on. Talking to Casey about it was weird. He didn't think Casey had an emotional cell in his entire being. Still, Casey had complimented him on his escape. He didn't like to think of how proud it made him feel. He popped his ear buds back in and turned the iPod to shuffle. He'd let his false flag cell get a bit more southward before he called again. He didn't want to be too obvious about things. Or seem too anxious.

He needed to work on his plan some more. He couldn't just keep driving around until he got caught or ran out of money. He had to figure out a destination, a cover, a new name and background. A new life.

Ellie Bartowski loved the wine country. She and Devon had a bed and breakfast for the weekend and had gone out for breakfast and a walk around town. They planned to do absolutely as little as possible this weekend, just recharging their batteries and spending some quality time together.

"Hey, babe, you got an email from Chuck."

"Well, open it up and read it. It's probably nothing but then again with Chuck you never know."

"Oh, shit. You better read this. This is so not awesome. I think the Chuckster's lost his marbles."

Ellie:

_First of all, delete this after you read it. Don't share it with anyone but Devon. _

_I'm in trouble and I'm on the run. I've been doing some work for the government. I'm the only one who can do what I do. I have information that could be dangerous if it falls into enemy hands. And there are so many enemies. Sarah and Casey are government agents, spies really, who were sent to "mind" me. _

_Everything about my relationship with Sarah has to do with the job. It's not real. I'm just the job to her, nothing more. I thought she and I had something but it was all a sham. She used my feelings, my love, for her to get things done, to accomplish her missions, nothing more. I'm such a fool. She's no different than Jill. She just betrayed me without sleeping with my best friend._

_The people we work for have decided I'm a security risk and are planning on putting me in an underground facility for the rest of my life. To keep me safe. HA! Sarah and Casey were instructed to kill me if I resisted. I overheard Sarah say she could use my feelings for her to get close to me… so it wouldn't be so messy. _

_Don't trust either of them. Don't believe a single thing they tell you. I'll try and contact you when I find a secure place and can figure out how to do it without setting off any alarms or putting you in danger._

_I have money and a car. I have a plan. So far it's working. I set this email to be delivered in 24 hours. I'm leaving now but I can't tell you where I'm going. You can't tell them what you don't know._

_I love you Ellie and I'm sorry but it looks like I'll miss your wedding. Take care and remember, delete this email and don't discuss anything I've told you with anyone. _

_Oh, yeah. Sorry about the water bill. I left a $20.00 bill on the kitchen table._

_Love,_

_Chuck _

Ellie read and reread the email. Devon just sat quietly, thinking. Finally Ellie deleted the email and sat staring at the blank screen.

"Devon, I don't know whether to believe him or not. He's been acting so strangely and yet his 'complicated' relationship with Sarah suddenly makes sense when it's put in the context of the email. But I know she has feelings for him. I can see it when she looks at him. No one is that good an actress. What do you think?"

" I think we need to go home. There's nothing we can do now and I know we'll both feel better at home. Besides, maybe Chuck left us some clues. I think a lot of things that have happened can be easily explained now that we know what brother's been up to. I believe him. I know it sounds crazy but think about it."

"Well, I'm going to call Sarah and see if she's talked to Chuck lately. I'll tell her I can't reach him on his cell and he's not at work. Maybe she'll let something slip. I just can't believe she'd use him and then kill him. I mean, she works for the government. She's supposed to protect us, not kill us."

Devon mumbled something about liberals and the nanny state but Ellie just glared at him and speed-dialed Sarah's cell.

"Sarah, hi, it's Ellie. Have you seen Chuck? All I get is his voicemail. I just wanted to tell him we might stay an extra night and drive straight in to work on Monday." Devon raised an eyebrow and smirked. Who knew Ellie could be so devious.

Shit. What could she say that would not make things worse? "Ellie, we sort of had a fight last night and we both said some things we didn't mean and I think he's off someplace thinking things through. He's probably at the beach or with Morgan. Have you called him?" Lame, Walker, really L-A-M-E.

Ellie knew right then and there that Sarah was lying to her. Chuck's email was sent via delay the previous morning. She's seen the date/time stamp. "Noooo, I normally don't call Morgan if it can be avoided. I'll give Chuck a couple of hours and then call him again. If you see him would you tell him about our change of plans?"

A few inane comments and platitudes later and Ellie hung up her cell and said coldly, "She's lying. Chuck's in trouble. Everything he wrote about her is true. She gave me some line about them having a fight last night but Chuck's email had been written yesterday morning and set for delayed delivery. Devon, my baby brother is on the run from killer spies."


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: This is not the end of the tale. The voices in my head keep whispering to me to continue on. I have, however, decided to stop writing and post the accumulated chapters since this seems like a nice place to take a break. So someone hold muh beer while I post these._

_Robert Heinlein wrote that there was nothing wrong with being a writer, just so long as you did it in the dark and washed your hands afterwards._

Kirk Griffin was not paying much attention to his driving. Besides his hangover and the glare from the sun his mind was preoccupied with a million things, not one of which was worth the price he was about to pay.

Squinting into the glare, he reached up and pulled his sunglasses from the visor pouch. He dropped them. They bounced off his thigh and landed on the passenger side floorboard. He reached over to pick them up. His reach was just a bit too short so he unhooked his seatbelt and reached down again to them up. When he did, his left hand pulled the steering wheel to the left.

He straightened up and put on his sunglasses. He never had a chance to refasten his seat belt. His worries were over however.

"Oh, shit.

Chuck saw a car in the south-bound lane suddenly swerve into his lane. There was no time to react. No time to brake or turn.

"Oh, shit."

Kirk Griffin was ejected upon impact and died almost immediately. His skull, neck, both collar bones and left arm were fractured and he suffered massive internal injuries.

Chuck Bartowski was more fortunate because he was wearing a seat belt. Unfortunately for Chuck, his old Chevy was not equipped with air bags. The sudden deceleration caused his body to jack-knife forward. His nose, left eye socket and left cheek bone were broken on impact with the steering wheel. His scalp was lacerated from just above his hair line diagonally down to his right eyebrow. He broke 5 ribs on the left side, one of which pierced his lung, dislocated his left shoulder and was mercifully unconscious.

Traffic in both directions screeched to a halt. Several drivers were on their cell phones calling 911, the CHP and the Fulton County Sheriff's Department. Several others were on their cell phones also – taking pictures to email to their friends. Kirk Griffin was an especially popular subject.

Within minutes paramedics and a sheriff's patrol vehicle were on the scene. Someone draped a sheet over poor Kirk Griffin. The living had a higher priority than the dead.

Chuck was regaining consciousness. He was having difficulty breathing but shock was keeping any pain at bay for the moment. The blood from his laceration had covered his face and was in his eyes. An EMT was prying open the driver's side door while another stood by with all the equipment necessary to stabilize the neck and spine and well as do a quick survey to avoid missing any immediate life-threatening injuries. It was pretty obvious to even an untrained eye that Chuck Bartowski was in bad shape and needed immediate attention.

A sheriff's deputy pulled open the passenger door to see if he could help. The EMTs motioned him away and continued working on the neck brace as well as quickly noting all visible damage. The deputy spied Chuck's cell phone on the floor on the passenger side. Miraculously it had bounced off the padded dash and ended up on the floor.

He picked up the cell and turned it on. It still worked. Since he couldn't get any ID off the injured man yet he figured he'd run the speed dials on the cell. Maybe a wife or mother or girlfriend would be able to provide some information. He hit 'redial' and waited for the phone to be answered.

Sarah's cell phone rang in the Castle. She read the display and saw it was the number Chuck had called from earlier.

"Chuck, please listen to me. I know you don't trust me right now but…"

"Ma'am, Ma'am" a voice interrupted Sarah. "Ma'am, this is Deputy Mike Stone of the Fulton County Sheriff's Department. Do you know who owns this phone?"

"Yes, my… my boyfriend, Chuck Bartowski. What is he doing way up north? He's supposed to be going to Mexico on vacation. Is something wrong? I just spoke with him this morning…" She had to let Casey know that Chuck had somehow fooled them into thinking he'd gone south.

"Well, Ma'am, I'm afraid your boyfriend has been involved in a traffic accident, a bad one by the looks of it. I think you'd better…"

Chuck Bartowski did not consider himself a hero or a super-patriot like you saw in the movies. But he heard a man say "Ful…" something and his instincts took over. Reaching behind him with his right hand he pulled the .45 caliber hand gun out of the waistband of his pants. He pointed the pistol straight up towards the roof of the passenger cabin. Fulcrum. They must have engineered the accident. Somehow they knew he was the Intersect.

The EMT saw the pistol and jumped back. He'd heard about the unpredictable reactions injured people had. Especially law enforcement. Maybe this guy was a cop. Didn't matter, he had a big-assed pistol and was waving it around even though he probably couldn't see worth a damn. He looked over the roof of the wrecked car.

"He's got a gun!"

"Get back! I'm not letting Fulcrum take me alive. I won't betray my country. Get back!"

The deputy ignored the screams of "Chuck, Chuck" from the woman on the phone and leaned into the passenger side of the car to see if he could grab the pistol away from the battered and bleeding man.

"No! Don't come near me. I won't let you have the Intersect!" yelled Chuck, waving the gun at a blurry figure he could barely see the outline of. He wedged the pistol against his stomach and with his functioning hand pulled back the slide on the .45 and let it slam forward, stripping a round from the magazine and locking it into the breech and barrel. The hammer was cocked by the action of the slide being pulled back. All that remained was for a pound of pressure to be exerted on the trigger and the handgun would perform as designed.

Neither Chuck nor the deputy could hear the distraught voice of Agent Sarah Walker, CIA on the phone sobbing "Chuck, oh God, Chuck, it's all right, it's OK. They're not Fulcrum, Chuck. Oh, God, please…"

He couldn't seem to draw a breath and it felt like the entire left side of his body had been dipped in fire. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered any longer. His entire focus was on lifting the pistol in his hand and firing. Jesus, when did this thing get so heavy? "Focus, Bartowski, focus on the mission. Don't let us down. Don't let your country down," he could hear Casey's voice in his head. "Man up, Bartowski."

Chuck pushed the pistol under his chin. The muzzle and front sight were cold against his skin. He silently said goodbye to Ellie and, yes, Sarah, squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger.

_**"BLAM"**_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Sorry for the cliff hanger. And all the reviews. When I said 'take a little break' I did not mean I was going to stop writing, just taking the time to upload the chapters. Wow, you people are so touchy about things._

In the 18 years he'd been a deputy sheriff, he'd seen people do strange and inexplicable things but what happened here 30 minutes ago was by far the strangest and personally most disturbing.

He was sitting on the bumper of one of the many ambulances that had converged on the scene in response to several 911 calls from other drivers who'd witnessed the accident.

In a moment of stupidity, he'd tried to wrestle the .45 automatic away from the victim, actually wrapping his left hand around the barrel when it discharged. The slide recoiled as designed and pulled his hand back, breaking his thumb when it encountered the trigger guard and slicing a 4 inch gash in the pads of his hand at the base of his fingers. They'd stitched up the gash but the thumb would require x-rays and a cast.

The look on the man's face when he looked at him, raving about not betraying his country. He'd seen the look of desperation in the man's eyes. They were young eyes, you could tell that even with all the blood and tissue damage done by the accident itself. They didn't seem to belong to an older man with salt and pepper hair. In fact, at first glance he would have put the vic's age as middle to late 40s. But those were the eyes of a much younger man. And there'd been so much pain in them. How hard it must have been for him to regain consciousness, have the presence of mind to one-handedly jack a round into the weapon and threaten his rescuers to stay back.

He'd looked into those eyes and watched fear and pain give way to steely determination. He knew instinctively that when the man looked away from him and put the muzzle of the Colt under his chin that he was going to pull the trigger. When he saw the eyes close and heard the whispered "I love you, Ellie. I love you, Sarah," the deputy knew he was saying goodbye to people he deeply loved and that was the exact moment he grabbed the barrel and was injured when the Colt discharged.

The paramedic was saying something to him but all he could hear even after several minutes was a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He knew it was only temporary. The muzzle blast from a .45 Colt automatic was brilliant and LOUD. And he'd been only inches away when the weapon discharged.

The paramedic finally just grabbed him by the shoulders and moved him aside. It registered in his mind that a body had been bagged and placed on the gurney and he was standing in the way of loading it onto the ambulance. They would share a silent ride to the hospital together and there would part company.

Sarah Walker was stunned. She heard the weapon fire and the Deputy saying "aw, shit, no" and then the call disconnected, either deliberately or accidentally. Sarah Walker became Agent Sarah Walker, CIA. Assessing what facts were known, she called Casey on his cell.

"Casey, the asset's been in a TA up in Fulton County. He totally had us looking in the opposite direction. Classic misdirection. All the evidence, real and 'suggested', led us to believe he was heading for Mexico when in fact he was heading north. Turn the bird around and get back here. I'll get back in contact with the County Sheriff's office and find out the situation and where they're taking Chu…the body."

Casey was shocked. Chuck dead? "Uh, Sarah, are you sure he's dead?" Sarah sounded distant, cold, mechanical, an Agent again.

"Yes, Casey, I listened to it all on my cell. The deputy redialed the last number called, mine. He said there'd been a terrible traffic accident and one of the drivers had a cell and he was calling to determine who it was. When he identified himself as a Fulton County Deputy Sheriff, Chuck started yelling that he wouldn't let Fulcrum take him alive, and then someone yelled that he had a gun. I…, I…, I tried calling out to him that it was OK but I, I… oh, Casey, I heard the gunshot. He killed himself thinking he was going to fall into enemy hands… Chuck's dead and I never got to tell him I loved him."

"We're about an hour's flight time away from Burbank. Meet me at the airport and we'll refuel and fly up there. It'll be quicker than driving. I'll call Beckman and brief her on the situation and tell her we're going to go up there and secure the body."

Casey was thinking, "What will we tell Ellie? The truth? Your little brother killed himself to keep being captured by a rogue government agency and betraying his country. While his country had sent a team of assassins to kill him? Oh, yeah. Right."

Casey called Beckman to brief her on the situation. No sense in wasting taxpayer money burning a hole in the sky when it was no longer necessary. Beckman would send in a clean up crew and no one would ever know about Chuck's heroics, no matter how wrong he'd been about the situation. This job sucked. It was time to go.

"Casey, secure. General, the Intersect is dead. Self-inflicted gunshot wound. Agent Walker 'listened' to the whole thing on her cell. We're taking a chopper up to the location and secure the body and see what collateral damage has occurred, if any. We'll also have to develop a plan to explain what happened should there be any questions. "

"No, Major Casey. You and Agent Walker will meet me at the airport in Burbank and we'll fly up together. You're certain of your facts?"

"Yes, ma'am, Agent Walker was contacted by a Fulton County Deputy Sheriff at the scene on her cell. He called to report a traffic accident and to try and identify the driver and advise next of kin of the situation. It was bad and survival was doubtful. He found a cell in the wreck, and redialed the last number called on Ch.., er, Bartowski's cell and got her. Things went bad after that. The asset regained consciousness and believed he was in danger of being captured by Fulcrum agents. Agent Walker heard him say that he would not be taken alive and would not betray his country. There was a gunshot and the cell disconnected. For some reason redialing the cell number results in a busy signal."

"Humph, I must admit I never figured it would end like this. An untrained and inexperience civilian asset runs circles around the CIA and NSA agents assigned to protect him. With almost no time for preparation, he plans and executes a complex head feint that has his handlers looking in the wrong direction. Y'know, Major, they'll be studying this at the Langley for years to come. And then, fearing capture by enemy agents and of being forced to betray his country, the same country that wants to kill him for wanting a normal life, he takes his own life."

"Yes, General, that about sums it up. I'll advise Agent Walker to meet me at the airport and await your arrival." Was that last sentence spoken with regret, guilt? He'd never heard that tone in her voice before.

"ETA Burbank is 50 minutes. I'll see you and Agent Walker shortly." Click

Fulton County Memorial Hospital Emergency Room

"I want full head CT and full chest on this one. They thought he was dead at the scene but paramedics detected a weak heartbeat. No breath sounds in left chest so we're looking at a probable collapsed lung. Alert the on-call thoracic surgeon after neurology and x-ray. Cross-type and match. They'll need a lot of blood on this one. We'll worry about bones if he makes it." The nurses starting cutting off the clothes and preparing the patient for surgery.

Turning to the other gurney, she zipped open the bag. "Damn. Another young one. So sad." She picked up the wall phone and punched in an extension. "Hey, Jerry, got another customer for you. Yeah, the ME needs to determine cause of death but I'd say booze, no seat belt. So, send someone up to exam room 4. But don't plan on taking a long lunch. We'll probably have another customer for you in a while."

Radiology

"Whoa, this one's a mess. No skull fracture but his orbit's had it on the left side. Cheek bone shattered. Nose will need a lot of work. Got a bleeder right here, see? And another hematoma right beside it only deeper. Looks like an older injury. This guy's been on borrowed time for a bit. Get these films to Neuro. They'll have to move quickly on this one". The nurse hurried to deliver the films. The CT images were already in the system.

Burbank Airport

Sarah Walker had found time to change from her Orange Orange "uniform" to something more fitting for the mission. Her "force fields", as Chuck referred to them jokingly, were firmly in place. The main shield was Training backed up by Professionalism augmented by Emotional Detachment with the final barrier being Denial. She would do her job and then… she didn't have any idea what would happen next. And she didn't care.

She and Casey sat across from each other in the Executive Center lobby waiting for General Beckman's plane to land. Once it was on the ground and refueled, they would board and head to Fulton County Memorial to claim the body. Sarah didn't know what she planned to do next. Inform Ellie, she supposed. She didn't look forward to that. Not one bit.

Casey studied his partner. She was in full Agent Mode, as Bartowski would have said. Composed, assured and distant. Only her eyes betrayed her inner turmoil. She could deny her feelings and even cloak them in disinterest but if you knew her, you could tell she was near the emotional breaking point. Her reaction to the whole situation screamed "compromised" loudly enough to wake the dead. He would support her as long as he could but he didn't think either of them would be around long enough to be of any help.

An attendant from the information desk walked over and told them their aircraft was on final approach and they could meet their party and board through the lower level access gate.

Fulton Country Memorial Hospital – Operating Room 3

"OK, I need suction here. I've isolated the bleeder, going to zap it with the laser on 3, 2, 1… ok, now let's see about the lesion… looks like a well-encapsulated HT, probably less than a month old. Someone rang this guy's bell pretty good. Scalpel…suction… a little help here. More light, please. All right, I think I got it. There's been a little damage to this area of the brain but it should pose much of a problem. He'll probably just lose a few memories. Let's clean up and let the pneumo crew work their magic. Good job, people."

Somewhere over northern California

General Diane Beckman knew when to thump heads and when to do nothing. She was still angry at the incompetence of her two top agents but upon reflection, didn't see how the situation could have been resolved any differently. Casey was correct. Bartowski _was_ brilliant. She'd been hasty in ordering the sanction but it was protocol specific to the Intersect Project and if she did anything in life, it was to follow protocol – until now.

Sarah Walker and John Casey were sitting opposite her, Casey studying the backs of his hands while Walker stared out the window, lost in thought.

"Major Casey, would you give Agent Walker and I a few moments alone, please?"

Casey's head shot up and he looked at the General. She motioned with her head for Casey to move to the rear of the aircraft. Glancing at his partner still staring out the window, he unbuckled his seat belt, nodded to the General, "Of course, General," and headed back to the rear of the aircraft. "What's up with that?" he wondered.

General Beckman looked at the blonde young woman sitting across from her. She could tell that Sarah Walker would need all her strength of will to get through the next few days. She did not envy her. In her mind's eye she saw another young woman, not as pretty, of course, but just as devastated and trying hard to maintain a professional image in front of her peers.

She thought back to the recording she'd been sent by NSA internal security of the events at the Castle. The fact that the Castle was monitored, and that all communications made by the agents for any purpose was recorded and analyzed for any hint of treachery was known only to a few people. The Intersect Project required draconian measures to ensure that the nation's most important and critical intelligence asset was secure and that the loyalty and conduct of his protective detail was unquestionable and beyond reproach.

She'd reviewed the video recording of Sarah Walker being told of the accident and the subsequent events of the next few minutes. She was not heartless. Quite the contrary. There were those who felt she should have reassigned Sarah Walker after the initial extraction attempt. But Diane Beckman knew better than anyone could imagine the worth of having someone protecting the asset who was in love with him. Even if the agent tried to deny it, to fight it. She was, after all, the consummate agent.

"Sarah, I know how you feel, felt, about Chuck Bartowski. Please," she said holding up a hand when she saw Sarah about to speak, "the Castle is bugged and all communications from and or between agents assigned to the Intersect protective detail is recorded by electronic means. I saw and heard what happened when the Deputy called you."

"I was a young lieutenant newly assigned to a joint operation in 1979. I worked with the intelligence sector but was tasked with interviewing and observing the unit commanders assigned to carry out the mission. You are too young to remember the Iranian hostage crisis. Jimmy Carter allowed our embassy staff to be humiliated and used to showcase American impotence. Finally military commanders approached him with a rescue mission. It was to be conducted by US Army Rangers on the ground but all the elements of the military were involved."

"I spent a long time with one of the Ranger commanders. Too long, really. We formed an attachment not unlike the one you formed with Chuck Bartowski. Fraternization was strictly forbidden but we became… intimate. I was prepared to leave the Army after the mission and we were to be married. I was going to give up everything I'd worked for to be with the man I loved."

"To make a long story short, it was a cluster f---. Poor intelligence, poor planning and bad weather. A blade strike on the ground at a rendezvous point destroyed 2 Chinook helicopters, their crews and the Rangers riding in them. I lost my…"

"Well, I decided from that moment on that I would dedicate my life to making sure that no other young lives were lost or ruined because of poor intelligence and faulty planning. Seems stupid to you, I'm sure but I blamed myself for his death. If our intelligence had been better, our planning less cumbersome maybe, well, that's in the past."

"The point I'm trying to make is that" and Sarah's cell phone rang. The General sighed and nodded. Sarah pulled out the cell phone and looked at the display. It was from the cell phone Chuck had been using to call her.

"It's from the cell phone Chuck was using to mislead Casey and I. I'd better take this call."

Beckman nodded. "This is Sarah Walker."

"Miss Walker is this is Deputy Sheriff Brunner with the Fulton County Sheriff's Department. I was talking with you trying to identify the surviving accident victim when things got a little bit exciting here. I apologize for the delay but I was injured and was only released from the ER a few minutes ago."

"Yes, Deputy, I'm en route now by plane to claim… Chuck's body and take it back to L.A. Has it been released yet?"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I can't let you claim the body. You see…"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, I CAN'T DO THAT!?!?" Sarah Walker suddenly went into Full Agent Mode. General Beckman watched, concerned that something was amiss.

The blood drained from Sarah's already pale face. He eyes widened in shock and then rolled up into the back of her head. For the first time in her life Sarah Walker fainted.


	10. Chapter 10

Chpt 10

_A/N: Thanks for all the positive feedback. For those who felt Sarah would not faint, consider 1. emotional state; 2. she probably hadn't eaten since Chuck flew the coop; and 3. the rubber band of her emotional control simply snapped with the adrenaline rush. In any event, it's how I wrote it and it is my tale to tell. Well, ok, the voices in my head told me to do it. For those awaiting the arrival of grizzly-bear-momma-Ellie, she's just around the corner. And boy is she p-ssed._

_This is definitely AU now. I haven't seen an episode since the Xmas one and am refraining from reading any fan fic. I don't want to be influenced by other plot lines. I have a definite plot line for this story and don't want to plagiarize someone else's fine ideas unwittingly. So bear with me please._

"Major Casey! I need you here!" Sarah Walker did _not_ faint. Unfastening her seat belt, General Beckman called out to Casey and then bent to retrieve the cell phone that had dropped from Agent Walker's nerveless fingers.

"Hello, this is General Diane Beckman, Director of the NSA, to whom am I speaking?"

Casey bent down over Sarah's limp body, bent over at the waist, still held fast by her seat belt. Holding her shoulders, he leaned her back against the seat, unfastened her seat belt and felt for a pulse. "If her seat belt had been any tighter … how could she breathe?" was his first thought.

Feeling a strong pulse, he took in the shallow breathing, the pale skin…"Wonder when she ate last? Or slept?"

"Unh, General, this is Deputy Sheriff Marcus Brunner, Fulton County Sheriff's department. I was just telling the young woman I was speaking with that she couldn't recover the body of her boyfriend and why when I heard the phone drop. Is there a problem?"

"Why don't you tell me what you told her and I'll decide if there's a problem".

Oh shit, oh dear, Marcus, just what have you gotten yourself mixed up with any ways? The frikkin' NSA…

"Ma'am, the reason she can't recover the body is that there _is_ no body. He's alive and in the operating room, but I don't have any idea how he's doing. Just that he was alive and fighting when he was brought in. I managed to wrestle the .45 away from him but he was dead set on dying. Kept raving about someone named "Fulcrum" and how he wasn't going to betray his country. Ma'am, he one of yours?"

Casey almost fainted himself! He was half listening to the conversation when he saw a miracle. It had to be. It just wasn't a natural event. General Diane NMI Beckman, Director of the NSA, actually smiled! Not a little smile either, but a full-blown multi-megawatt-I-won-the–lottery-crinkle-your-eyes-shut smile. And it melted the years off her face and Casey saw the pretty young woman she used to be for just an instant.

"Yes, Deputy Brunner, I'm glad to say he's one of mine… now I have some instructions for you. I need them carried out immediately until I can get agents on the scene. Will you help me?"

"Of course, General. What do you need me to do?"

"First, that's a very important young man – important to this country's security. I want you to go to the operating room and wait outside the door. When the surgery is completed, I want you to accompany the patient wherever he goes. If anyone asks, just tell them it's police business. Use your authority."

"Yes, ma'am, can do."

"I expect you to maintain your post until properly relieved by agents who will identify themselves as 'blackbirds', or by myself and my two agents, is that understood?"

"Crystal clear, General, 'blackbirds' or yourself and your agents."

"Thank you." She disconnected the call. "Major Casey, it appears that Chuck Bartowski's escape and evasion exercise is over. I trust you've learned something from this experience. I know I have. Once we're on the ground, organize ground transportation for us. Now I suggest you help Sar… er… Agent Walker compose herself. She'll want to look her best when we get to the hospital. I doubt she's eaten since the inception of the exercise, so see what you can scrounge up in the galley."

'Who are you and what have you done with Ball-Breaker Beckman' thought Casey as he got Walker to her feet and guided her to the galley area. 'Exercise my ass.'

Diane Beckman smiled at the retreating agents. The Chinese were correct. With crisis comes opportunity for the bold. She thumbed her cell's address book and speed-dialed a number. "This is Beckman, secure, I have a priority Zebra-1 situation at Fulton County Memorial Hospital. I want a Blackbird team dispatched to secure an intelligence operative who has been injured in the line of duty. Find Deputy Sheriff Brunner and relieve him but ask that he remain on the scene. I want to personally debrief him on his experience with our operative. Secondly, I want the best surgical team available on the west coast, all specialties, in place at the Moab facility. They are to remain there pending the arrival of our operative and his protective detail. Beckman out."

Fulton County Memorial Hospital – Operating Room 3

"How's our boy doing? Done rewiring his motherboard?" Dr. Robert Johnson was a thoracic surgeon with a low opinion of neurologists, since they used technology in lieu of true surgical skills (in his opinion, of course, never voiced aloud).

"He's all yours. We'll keep the EEG and monitors live and monitor remotely while you carpenters and plumbers fix the body. Seriously, he's in bad shape physically. I didn't cut corners but I didn't just stroll around in his head either. Time is of the essence. We got the bleeding from the accident stopped and even repaired a chronic SDH while we were in there. He's got some neural bundles branching all over the place. I swear they look like they're recent growth. I've never seen anything like it. It's like his brain has connections running to places we don't normally use. Well, you go do your magic. We're outta here."

"OK, people, let's get a chest tube…"

Outside the operating room, Deputy Sheriff Brunner stood waiting for the operation to end. "Hey, Dr. Johnson, how's my boy doing in there?"

"Well, Marcus, we got the bleeding contained, did some repairs and then got out of the way for the trauma team to have at him. How's the hand? Why are you still here?"

"Thumb's broke. My own fault. I'm just waiting to get some details to close out the paperwork."

"Well, if you're planning on questioning John Doe in there, you'll be here for a while. I won't kid you. He's a mess."

"Thanks, Doc. I'll see ya later." John Doe? As good a name as any until the General says otherwise.

**Forty miles north of L.A.**

"Dammit, Devin, I can't believe it. I thought she was the one. Chuck loved her. I thought she loved him. I asked her to be my Maid of Honor for Crissakes. She's a spy? A killer?"

Ellie Bartowski was on a roll. Devin wished, at that moment, that he had Demerol or Morphine or duct tape to shut her up. He loved Ellie Bartowski with all his heart and soul but he'd been listening to this for the last 300 miles.

They had delayed leaving for a day having told Sarah Walker that they were driving in on Monday when Ellie had spoken to her. No sense changing the plan just in case they were being watched. Chuck, a spy? Not awesome. Not awesome at all.

"Ellie, please. Please. Just give it a rest. Get some sleep. You'll need to be sharp in case Chuck calls and needs help."

"Devin, he's my baby brother. He's all the family I have left and he's in trouble. I can't just 'sit in the car', I have to do something to help him."

Devin knew the he had to choose his next words _very _carefully.

"Babe, just what is it you think you can do? We don't know where Chuck is, where he's going, what his plans are… and that's the way he wanted it. He didn't want to involve us and he wanted to keep _you_ safe. You're all the family he has left. They'll be watching us. The best thing we can do is make them think we're as surprised by all this as they "seem" to be. So take a micro-nap until we're back in Burbank."

He was dreading the confrontation between Ellie and "that _bitch_" as Ellie now called the person they knew as Sarah Walker. Trained assassin or not, he'd put his money on the Momma Bear.

Somewhere over Northern California

"When was the last time you ate anything, Walker? Your blood sugar is probably zip. Let's see what the General has in the way of goodies in the frig."

He'd seated Sarah in the fold-down jump seat in the galley. She hadn't said a word to him, hadn't lifter her head up or made eye contact. "You going to be ok here or do I have to belt you in? Wouldn't look good on your record to have had you faint _twice_ in front of the General." No response, not even a nod.

"Look, Walker, Bartowski's alive, and from what I can put together from the General's side of a phone conversation he's in surgery and the General has everything well in hand. We need to start developing a plan for handling the fallout with Ellie Bartowski. You need to get your head in the game or Beckman's gonna check _you_ into Moab. C'mon, Sarah, Chuck's gonna need you at the top of your game."

Casey pulled open the refrigerated drawer in the galley. He'd seen the catering service following the cleaning crew out of the plane after prepping it for the next leg on its trip. 'The brass really travels in style, budget cuts and all' thought Casey. Ah, box lunches. He was willing to bet a month's pay that it wasn't anything like the usual government in-flight meal: baloney and cheese on wheat, an apple and whatever you already had to drink.

"Casey, he's in surgery?"

Casey looked up at Sarah. "Sorry, I didn't catch that. What?" said Casey.

"The asset's in surgery?"

"_Chuck's_ in surgery. I guess he got a little banged up. Y'know, his vintage machine was not equipped with airbags. So he's probably got some minor problems. I don't know the specifics. Beckman's talking to the Deputy Sheriff on the scene and arranging some stuff."

Casey tried to minimize the medical issues. He didn't know specifics and knew his partner was still in Agent Mode. He kept it simple and straight-forward. Nothing too complex. Walker had just had a shock to the system and he didn't want to overload her until she'd eaten something.

A Chevy Impala. Good choice, Chuck. Not as good as a Crown Vic but right up there near the top. His approval of Charles Irving Bartowski went up a few points. There was more than just girly squeals to Bartowski. A lot more.

"Casey, I was on the phone with the Deputy. I heard the gunshot. He was dead. How could this happen? Are you sure it's the asset that's in surgery and not the other driver?" Sarah was still channeling the penultimate CIA Agent. Down to the monotone and bored disinterest in her voice. She still refused to call Chuck anything other than the "asset".

'Mmmmmmm, roast beef on whole wheat with all the trimmings… yes, traveling with the brass had perks…' thought Casey.

"Here. Eat this. Drink this. You haven't had a thing to eat and your blood sugar's low. No other reason for you to faint, right? I mean, you not preggers are you?" The last was said almost as a joke in passing, but also to verify that he had the agent's attention.

Silence. For about 5 seconds.

"No, John, a girl's got to have had intimate contact with a man to be "preggers". This was said with a little more life in her voice and a bit of longing.

Well, so Bartowski and Walker hadn't sealed the deal yet. That meant that Sarah was serious about her feelings for Chuck. Otherwise she'd have used sex as a 'reward' and threatened to cut him off from the goodies if he didn't "stay in the car."

It was SOP to use sex to control the mark. Not sleeping with Chuck despite the need to control meant that Sarah Walker would not cross that invisible line that kept intimacy out of the playbook. She would not use her body for the job. Bad spy craft but good for a relationship.

"Can I have another sandwich? I'm suddenly famished!"

Fulton Country Memorial Hospital

A caravan of black SUVs drove into the parking lot of the hospital. Each one was an identical black with heavily tinted windows. Two drove around to the rear of the building. The other two parked in front. Four men got out of each of the SUVs. They were almost identical in coloring and attire. All wore white shirts, black suits and ties and mirror lens sun glasses.

The 8 men from the rear of the hospital took up positions at all points of entry and egress. The leader of the detail motioned 2 men to positions by the door, 1 to remain in the communications vehicle and the other 4 to accompany him into the hospital. He would deploy them as the situation warranted. The first order of business was to locate Deputy Sheriff Marcus Brunner and get a sitrep.

The deputy was standing outside the entrance to operating room 3 when the men in black arrived.

"Are you Deputy Brunner?"

"Yes, Marcus Brunner. And you are?" He was suddenly aware that his weapon was in his patrol car and if these MiB were not from the General he could be in deep doo doo.

"General Beckman sent us. Blackbird."

"Good. The man is still in the operating room. I was able to speak with the head neurologist who did one of the surgeries and he said it was touch and go. The Trauma Team is in there now. No one else has entered or left." Now maybe he could get out of here, go home and pop some pain meds. His thumb was throbbing and he hadn't had anything to eat since early this morning. It had been a long and eventful day.

"Fine. I'm Agent Holmes. We are a team of 16 tasked with securing the hospital and guarding the injured man until General Beckman arrives… and that will be in less than an hour. You've done your country a great service. General Beckman wishes you to remain here so she can personally thank you and debrief you regarding the events of this morning. Agent Dean will escort you to a more comfortable waiting room. Thank you for your service."

Well, so much for getting home. He followed the agent to the conference room area in the admin wing.

Agent Holmes spoke into the cuff mike of his suit coat. " Deputy has been relieved and is standing by for Beckman's debriefing. All agents report…" It would be an interesting afternoon. He deployed his remaining agents to key points within the hospital and once again wondered who was so damned important that he needed the Director of the NSA to personally supervise his protective detail. Probably way beyond his pay grade but still, he was curious.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

**Somewhere over Northern California – ETA Fulton County Air Park 10 minutes**

"To summarize: Agent Casey, you will continue your current duties and secure the person of the Intersect while he's in the civilian hospital. Agent Walker, you will brief Drs. Bartowski and Woodcombe on the role of the asset and explore the possibilities of adding them to the roster of approved physicians for intelligence operatives in the Los Angeles area. Should any questions arise you do not feel able to answer, refer them to me. Any questions?

"Ma'am, are you certain that Agent Walker should remain assigned to this detail. She's been the consummate professional but her relationship with Bartowski is complex and, in my opinion, she's totally compromised. She might find herself unable or unwilling to operate within mission parameters because of this." Casey looked directly at the General. He wanted it all out on the table. He didn't want a new partner. What he did want was a clear and unambiguous ruling on the relationship between Bartowski and Sarah Walker.

Sarah looked at Casey and then the General. She understood Casey's position. If the mission required actions that conflicted with her personal feelings for the asset, the mission might fail. Part of her wanted to acknowledge the truth in his words. The rest of her wanted to gut him like a fish and let pigs eat his entrails. Even she was surprised at the image her mind had conjured up. Where would she find pigs at 30,000 feet?

"Major Casey, you are correct to bring this up for discussion. I am not blind. I have been aware for some time now that there was an emotional connection growing between Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker."

"At first I was concerned for the mission objectives as well any commander should be. But time after time your team has surpassed expectations, achieved results far beyond what would normally be expected of you. To a great extent these were accomplished because of the interaction between agents and asset. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Simple synergy. And a large part of that synergy comes from the relationship between Agent Walker and the asset. That cannot be denied. And it should not be."

"I've done a lot of thinking and reevaluating my position as events developed over the past 36 hours. I was wrong to have issued a sanction on Chuck Bartowski. I did not have a clear understanding of events that might have triggered this exercise. And to that end, I apologize. No commander should ever give orders he or she knows will not be obeyed. That is a failure of the commander, not his subordinates."

'That's the second time she's referred to this clusterf--- as an "exercise". What the hell does she have up her sleeve?' Casey wondered. He almost asked but decided he'd already put enough out there for discussion. If the General wanted to refer to the past few days as an "exercise", well, she was the General.

"Now as to the relationship between Agent Walker and Mr. Bartowski, I have decided to let Nature take its course. From what I've observed, Agent Walker's dedication to the asset far outweighs mission parameters. I can think of no agent I would rather have responsible for the protection of an asset as important as Mr. Bartowski than Agent Sarah Walker. I suppose I should clarify the situation further: I am giving my unqualified blessing to whatever it is that is developing between Agent Walker and Mr. Bartowski."

"Is that clear enough for you, Major Casey?" A ghost of a smile flickered across her face.

"Crystal, General. Thank you for clarifying my partner's position vis-à-vis the asset." The same ghost smile flickered across his features. The General winked at Casey. 'Jesus H Christ, did she just _wink_ at me?'

Sarah Walker was oblivious to any of the subtle by-play between her superior and partner. General Diane By-the-Book-or-By-the-Balls Beckman had just given her the green light to pursue a relationship with the man she loved. And to bring Ellie and Devon in from the cold and put an end to this "it's complicated" cover relationship. She was free to follow her heart. And her heart was in the hands of Chuck Bartowski, condition unknown. She looked at the General and nodded. "I understand completely, General. I will do my best to fulfill my duties as partner to Major Casey. And to the asset and the mission. Thank you, ma'am, for your continued confidence. Team Bartowski will not let you down."

"Satisfied, Major Casey?"

"Yes, ma'am. Totally and without reservation."

The pilot announced they were on final approach. Beckman dialed a number from memory on her cell. "Beckman, secure. We're on final approach. Have one of your Blackbirds meet us at the air park with transportation, please." She ended the call and settled in for the landing. The next few hours would be very difficult and taxing for all. But very interesting, also.

The wheel trucks kissed the runway and the pilot in Casey evaluated the landing as 'near perfect'. But then the General would not have settled for just any pilot, only the best.

As they rose to deplane, Beckman grasped Sarah's forearm. "Sarah, Chuck Bartowski is an extraordinary young man and he deserves an equally extraordinary woman by his side. Don't waste your chance. It's what I was trying to tell you when you took that call. Don't become me."

It was a shocked but delighted Sarah Walker who followed the General and Casey out of the plane and into the waiting SUV.

The ride to the hospital lasted an eternity but in truth lasted only 15 minutes. They passed the accident scene just minutes after leaving the airpark. The remains of Chuck's car were being loaded onto a flat bed car carrier. Casey evaluated the damage with a keen eye for detail. Chuck Bartowski had definitely been under the wing of an angel. It was a miracle he survived.

'But then, it's been a day full of miracles,' Casey thought. And smiled.

General Beckman shuddered and looked away. They had been so close to losing the Intersect. And still not totally out of the danger zone.

Sarah Walker looked at the mangled car. She could not imagine the forces at work that had caused such damage and yet allowed her Chuck to survive. Her eyes began to tear but she forced herself to concentrate on her immediate concerns: Chuck's condition and bringing Ellie and Devon in from the cold.

They arrived at the hospital. The agents guarding the doors nodded to the General who ignored them, concentrating on the business at hand.

First thing on the agenda, debrief Deputy Sheriff Marcus Brunner. Second, determine the condition of the intersect. Third, evaluate the staff and quality of care Bartowski would receive. It would be cumbersome to provide the proper level of security in a hospital, and the necessity of vetting the staff that would have access to the patient was daunting. She would affect transfer to the Moab facility as soon as the patient's condition allowed for travel. And fourth, contact Drs. Bartowski and Woodcombe and arrange transportation for them to Fulton Memorial.

General Diane Beckman studied the man sitting across from her at the conference table. The NSA agents on site had secured the room closest to the ICU unit deciding that the General and the protective detail would need an area to set up an operations area.

Marcus Brunner was not overly impressed with the physical stature of General Beckman. A small woman, thin and severe, she seemed rigid and very sure of herself. 'An officer used to commanding, used to being in charge and in control. This situation must be driving her up the wall,' he thought.

"So, after dialing the last number called you were speaking with Agent Walker when the young man regained a semblance of consciousness and became very agitated. You leaned in to assist the paramedics with extracting the man when he pulled out a pistol and began waving it around yelling as best he could with his injuries that he would not be taken alive and not betray his country. Is that correct, Deputy? And he managed to load a round from the magazine, cocking the weapon, _one-handed_?"

"Yes, General. His left arm was broken and his shoulder dislocated. I overheard the paramedics calling in their initial presentation. They were trying to get a neck brace on him when he came to. I don't know who this Fulcrum character is, but your operative was determined that he would not fall into his hands."

"And you are certain that the man would have suicided if you had not grabbed the barrel of the pistol at the last second and deflected the barrel away from his head?"

"Oh, yes, General, he was losing consciousness again and he could tell it. He pulled that trigger and I don't think the round cleared his face by more than a quarter of an inch. As it was, the sound level of the discharge was incredible in such a contained space. I heard one of the Docs here say he ruptured one of his eardrums. A very lucky young man. Very lucky."

"Indeed. Well, thank you very much for your assistance. I'm sure the Sheriff will be pleased with a letter of commendation for the unit and especially for the fine job you've done today. I'm sure you have better things to be doing – especially since I know from experience how much pain you're in. You're free to go with our thanks. And if you ever find yourself in need of 'unusual assistance', here's my card. The NSA owes you one."

Chuck Bartowski never ceased to amaze Diane Beckman. Her first impression of Bartowski was of a flake, an under-achiever who had settled for less than his potential, who was comfortable marking time, going nowhere, and a bit neurotic and immature. Well, the events of the past 2 years and those of the last 3 days had definitely made her rethink her impression of one Charles Irving Bartowski. He has matured, both emotionally and philosophically. He had proven himself to be a quick thinker, innovative and creative, with deeply ingrained values she wished more of her operatives possessed. She, for one, would never have imagined that Bartowski would take his own life rather than betray his country. Definitely food for thought.

**ICU – outside Chuck's room**

Sarah Walker was dreading making the call to Ellie Bartowski. Chuck was still in surgery and the physicians that she and General Beckman had interviewed were hopeful but guarded. The neurosurgeon had been especially reserved, describing Chuck's current injuries as well as explaining the presence of an earlier and much more serious condition that, upon review, probably explained Chuck's actions. He described the symptoms, probable reactions and expectations and outcome if the damage done by the earlier injury had not been surgically treated. Chuck would have died, in pain and alone, off the grid and beyond hope and help. He would need therapy to bring him back to optimum but that could be handled at the Moab facility. And as soon as his condition allowed, she planned on some very _personal _physical therapy.

'Enough of that, Walker, get your head back in the game' She thought.

None of that explained how Chuck Bartowski was able to plan and execute an operation with such precision, innovation and skill. He'd totally sandbagged his handlers, sending them off in the wrong direction while he made good his escape. From his perspective, he was running for his life and liberty. A lot of things had gone right for Chuck Bartowski, he'd been lucky but Sarah did not believe in luck. You made your own luck in the spy world or you were dead.

Knowing Chuck would be in the OR another hour and then in recovery for a longer period, she made arrangements to recycle the aircraft back to Burbank to pick up Ellie and Devon. At this point she could have cared less what Ellie Bartowski or Devon Woodcombe thought of any of this. Her objective was to get them on the aircraft, in the air and back here within 3 hours. Once that was done she'd spend a little time napping and waiting for Chuck to be transferred to his room in ICU.

**Burbank**

Ellie Bartowski was dead on her feet. Worry and stress were very debilitating. And she'd been tired before any of this had happened. It was one of the reasons they'd made plans for the long weekend. They both needed to rest and recharge their batteries.

When her cell vibrated, her first thought was CHUCK! Her next thoughts were unkind, illegal and probably would result in her immediate acceptance into Hell as one of the Devil's handmaidens. The Call was from Sarah Walker and she debated answering it at all. After all, she shouldn't even have her cell turned on in a hospital. Well, no sense putting it off.

"Dr. Bartowski."

"Ellie, it's Sarah Walker. Chuck's been in a horrible car accident. He was hit head-on by a drunk driver up here in Fulton County. I've arranged for an aircraft for you and Devon. It's at the Executive Airpark there in Burbank. It should be there by the time you arrive. You'll be met here and escorted to the hospital. Please, Ellie, Chuck needs you. He's still in surgery but the outcome doesn't look promising. Please come, Ellie, please."

Was Agent Sarah Walker actually crying? No. It was an act. Chuck had warned her not to trust her or John Casey.

"What is it you really want, _Agent Walker_?"

The words froze Sarah for a second. _Agent_ Walker? How did she know? Oh, shit. Chuck's a computer genius. The email we deleted must have been copied to God-knows how many other addresses Ellie might access.

"Ellie, regardless of your feelings for me and Casey, you have to get here. He might… you might… oh, Ellie, he's so badly hurt. He… he tried to kill himself when the paramedics were cutting him out of the wreck. I don't know where he got a gun. Ellie, please. Don't do this to me, to Chuck, please."

She was sobbing uncontrollably. Ellie knew that no one, not even a CIA agent could put so much emotion into an act. She knew what she had to do.

"We're on our way. If anything, I mean anything, happens to my baby brother, not the government, not the CIA, ABC, XYZ or any thing else will stop me from killing you, _Agent _Sarah Walker, or whatever your name really is. We're on our way."

"Thank you, Ellie. We'll see you in 3 hours or so. Everything will be… I hope… I'll see you, Ellie."

She had to find Devon, explain the situation to him and get to the Burbank Executive Airpark as soon as possible.

Dr. Ellie Bartowski was already contemplating the demise of one Sarah Walker. Hippocratic Oath be damned. That bitch was gonna die.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Definitely AU. I write in detail, I want my readers to feel immersed in the story, that's why the excruciating detail. Thank you for the reviews. Criticism re writing style would be greatly appreciated. I'm not as experienced as some of the other better writers posting here and I'd appreciate any criticism they have to offer._

_Ellie is in full contact mode. Poor Devon. And I've decided to explore John Casey's attitudes toward characters and events more fully. I don't think his character is nearly as Neanderthal as one would expect but he's got some strong opinions he's been harboring for a long time and now I'm going to let him out to play for a while. Perhaps not immediately, but eventually. You Casey-haters will just have to get a grip._

_This chapter ties up some loose ends and solves the problem of "what do we tell Ellie?"_

Fulton County Memorial Hospital

Sarah Walker closed her cell connection, glad that no one had overheard her conversation with Ellie. Chuck's sister was an incredible woman and next to her, Sarah sometimes felt… less than adequate. In the spy world she was the undisputed queen, well, at least one of the most royal of the nobility, but in real life, as Chuck referred to his day-to-day existence, she was out of her comfort zone. Drying her eyes, she headed for the nearest ladies room to repair her makeup. It would not be appropriate for either the General or her partner to see evidence of her emotional breakdown with Ellie.

She nodded to the Blackbird agent standing outside the conference room and proceeded in search of a ladies room. If the agent noticed anything or had overheard anything, he gave no indication. Sarah did not expect otherwise. They were the ultimate in protective details. The General's own Praetorian Guard. Consummate professionals. Stone cold killers, every one of them.

Burbank Executive Airpark

"Dr. Bartowski, Dr. Woodcombe?" asked the attendant at the counter.

"Yes, I'm Dr. Bartowski and this is Dr. Woodcombe."

"May I see some identification, please?"

Ellie dug out her driver's license and showed it to the attendant. Devon merely smiled and flashed her his hospital ID. He'd forgotten it was still clipped to his shirt. They didn't wear scrubs unless scheduled to operate so he had already been in civilian clothes when Ellie had tracked him down and dragged him into the supply closet.

"Devon, we have to get to Burbank Executive Airpark immediately. Chuck's been in a terrible accident. Sarah Walker has sent a plane to fly us up to Fulton County Memorial. She said it didn't look good for Chuck. There will be someone to meet us at the Airpark."

"Whoa, hold on a minute. _Sarah Walker, AGENT Sarah Walker. The BITCH Walker. _That one? After everything Chuck told you about not trusting her, you're going to put us in a plane that they control. I don't think so. Honey, I love Chuck like my own brother but he told us they would try something like this, to get leverage over him. Think this through." Devon remembered Chuck's warning in the email.

"Devon, no one, not even the best fucking actress in the world, could have faked the terror and anguish I heard in her voice. No, she may have had something to do with his running but she's scared, Devon. She couldn't even describe his injuries without breaking down. No. We have to do this. She says he's still in the operating room after 6 hours and that 3 teams of surgeons have been working on him. She said Chuck needed us and … oh, Devon we have to go."

And so they did.

They were met at the jet way by one of the Blackbirds. He verified their ID's and escorted them onto the General's executive jet. After ensuring they were buckled in, he went forward and advised the pilot to request permission for take off. They were in the air five minutes later.

The agent came back and informed them that the estimated flight time, barring unforeseen delays in the San Francisco Air Traffic Zone, was 1 hour and twenty minutes. They would be met by another agent be driven to the hospital upon arrival.

The tension and worry had taken a toll on the young doctors. They were both asleep within minutes of takeoff.

Fulton County Memorial Hospital – O.R. 3

"Instrument and sponge count complete and accurate, doctor."

"Good. Let's clean this up and get this poor guy into recovery. He's good to go from the neck down. Everything has been nailed, screwed, inflated, wrapped, spliced and stitched that needed it. I'll write up the orders for pain meds but I don't think he'll be coming around anytime soon. He'll be on a respirator for a while until he's ready to breathe on his own again. Don't think that will be anytime soon though. That lung was messy."

"Sad, really. Young guy like that. His whole life changed by a drunk driver. Well, at least there's some justice in the world. It's the drunk that's in the morgue and not this guy for a change."

Snapping off the latex gloves, the orthopedic surgeon left the O.R. to chart the patient's meds and orders. She never made it. A tall man dressed in a very expensive black suit intercepted her.

"Ma'am, your presence is requested in the conference room. A medical briefing is being held regarding your patient. Your input is valuable and much appreciated. Please follow me to the conference room. We'll try and wrap this up as quickly as possible."

Conference Room – 30 minutes later

"So, General, in summation, Mr. Barnowsky will…"

"Doctor, as I've said before, it's Bartowski. I hope your surgical skills were superior to you listening skills."

"Yes, ma'am, Mr. _Bartowski_ can expect a full recovery and suffer no lasting effects from the collapsed lung, broken ribs, broken arm or dislocated shoulder. The laceration to his forehead required 28 stitches to close and there may well be some scarring. The eye socket has been repaired and no damage was sustained by the organ due to the fracturing of the orbit. He is very fortunate in that respect. As for the tympanic membrane, it should heal normally with possibly some loss of hearing in the lower frequency range."

"Doctors, thank you for your efforts today. And thank you for taking the time to brief us on the condition and prognosis of Mr. Bartowski. We may call on you again if any questions arise. You're dismissed." General Beckman had absorbed the information regarding the damage sustained by the intersect. The physical trauma was daunting. The neurological prognosis was totally unknown.

As the doctors filed out of the conference room, General Beckman motioned the neurologist to remain behind.

"Doctor, I know of all the surgeries performed today, yours was the one least discussed. Tell me truthfully, will Mr. Bartowski suffer any lasting effects of this trauma? Was the… hematoma?… yes, the hematoma really the cause of his aggressive behavior, his paranoia?"

"Well, General, I didn't know the young man before his initial injury but I can tell you from clinical studies I've read that nothing surprises me. The brain is a curious and wonderous creation. Mr. Bartowski's initial injury was to a portion of the brain we know affects hearing and cognition, and some aspects of short-term memory as well. But this man's brain is apparently unique in that there is an astonishing amount of "cross linkages" between the separate hemispheres of the brain. I have no idea if this new growth is the result of the injury or some other trauma or just his natural brain structure. I do know that it is benign and is not indicative of any disease or disorder. He's just… different."

"Thank you, doctor. That will be all. You've done wonderful work here. We all appreciate what you've done for Mr. Bartowski."

During this entire exchange, Devon and Ellie had sat at the end of the conference room against the wall. If looks could kill, Sarah Walker would have been beyond the skills of the assembled doctors. She did not acknowledge the two doctors. She had been involved in a discussion with Casey regarding security when they'd entered and taken seats in the back of the room.

Now that the last of the surgeons had left the conference room, Ellie Bartowski stood up and confronted General Beckman.

"I want to see my brother, General, now, please. I have waited long enough. He's probably out of the recovery room and in ICU. I want to see my brother. Alone. You can't stop me from seeing him. None of you had better even try."

John Casey smirked his smirk of smirks. He was waiting for General Beckman to tear off Ellie Bartowski's head and shit down her neck. He felt almost sorry for her. He felt sorrier for Chuck, however. He'd had to live with her and her nagging for years now. She's what probably drove Chuck over the edge.

He wondered again about Devon. Did he know what he was letting himself in for? An entire lifetime of nagging, cajoling, guilt-tripping and God knew what else. Ellie Bartowski could be very wearing. Sure, she was a knockout but you can only screw so long. Then you have to talk. And her cloying behavior was clearing suffocating Devon's independence. John Casey knew he could never tolerate a barnacle like Ellie Bartowski. Listening to those damned audio tapes made John Casey realize he was not paid enough and that he was fortunate to only have to 'hear' Ellie Bartowski and not 'listen' to her.

"Young woman, you are here at my sufferance. And the intercession of Agent Walker. For some unknown reason, her protective instincts and feelings for your brother have expanded to include you and Dr. Woodcombe. And you brother is still in recovery. Every change in his condition is relayed to me and his protective detail within seconds. He is extremely important to us. To some of us, very, very important." She glanced at Sarah Walker.

Ellie Bartowski face reddened and she started to object but the General cut her off.

"You need to know just what it is your brother does, what service he performs for his country, what a price he pays for his unique abilities. And what these two agents do and will continue to do to protect him from harm. You need to sit down, young woman, shut up and _listen!_"

Ellie Bartowski found herself sitting in a chair without any idea how she got there.

'Damn, the General's back… and she's taking no prisoners,' thought Casey. He caught Devon's eye and smiled. Devon winked and sat back, clearly enjoying the show.

"Dr. Bartowski, less than 50 people in the entire world know of your brother's unique abilities and his role in the intelligence community of the United States of America. He is a national asset, no, a treasure, as Major Casey so eloquently reminded me not so long ago."

"Your brother is the Intersect. He has in his brain all the intelligence data gleaned from countless sources and it is his unique ability to "flash" on specific stimuli and access that data and render an articulate and cogent summary. He also has demonstrated a remarkable ability to find relationships where none would appear to exist. He is unique. He and his team have thwarted countless acts of violence and terrorism as well as going about his daily business without any recognition, compensation or remuneration."

"Major John Casey is the NSA operative assigned to his protective detail. He also leads a double life, as does CIA agent Sarah Walker. It was initially a 'cover' relationship that she has maintained with your brother. It was awkward, artificial and very unfair to both the individuals involved. Chuck lied to you many times. And I can't tell you how many times he bitterly complained about having to do so. About his relationship with Agent Walker, his lack of ambition to better himself, and of his mysterious absences."

"I understand from Major Casey that the phrase 'it's complicated' was used many times to explain your brother's relationship with Sarah Walker and why the relationship appeared stalled. Well, it _is_ complicated. But hopefully less so after a discussion I had today with Agent Walker."

"Now, you and Dr. Woodcombe are two more people who know about Chuck. Who know about the Intersect. And you are two more people who have the potential to betray him to enemies of our country who would stop at nothing to possess him. Yes, possess him. They would torture him for the information he has stored in his brain. They would torture _you_ to force him to betray his country."

Devon was stunned. Chuck, a spy? It was true. And from what this general was saying, he was more than a spy. He was a human computer. Awesome. Totally awesome.

Ellie Bartowski was horrified. She'd been so unfair to Chuck and so demanding. She was more than a little ashamed of herself. But she still couldn't get past the fact that these people had tried to murder her brother.

"General Beckman, this is all fine and dandy, but explain to me why my brother felt it was necessary to run for his life from the very people assigned to protect him? Why Agent Walker was planning to use my brother's feelings for her, his trust, to get close enough so it "wouldn't be so messy"? Answer that question for me. I'm really interested in hearing that explanation. And don't try to deny it. I got an email from Chuck, delayed 24 hours to give him time to make good on his escape plan. He told me everything he'd heard. My brother doesn't lie."

Beckman considered the question.

Turning to Major Casey, she gestured towards her laptop computer.

"The Chinese say a picture is worth a thousand words. So, watch and listen to the actual conversations your brother overheard in Burbank at our secure facility. I should also tell you that the agents assigned to your brother are unaware that these recordings are made. Perhaps Fox Mulder is right. Trust no one."

Casey looked at Sarah. Her lips were drawn into a thin line and her brow was furrowed. No doubt she thought this 'watching the watchers' was carrying things a bit too far. But then, Casey was NSA and knew that no one was above suspicion. Trust, yes, but verify.

Beckman typed some keys, entered a few numbers and then turned the laptop around so that Ellie could see the screen. She turned up the volume.

No one said a word for the next 5 minutes.

"So you see, Dr. Bartowski, given Chuck's injury from a previous encounter with an assailant, he 'selectively' heard words, phrases and sentences. From what I've been told by the neurologist, we were fortunate that his condition didn't worsen. If he had made good on his escape, and seeing how easily he thwarted the efforts of his handlers and the entire intelligence community I have no doubt he would have, his death from complications would occur before week's end."

"So there was no plot to put Chuck into a detention center, no instructions to kill him. This was all a terrible misunderstanding caused by the hematoma?" Ellie Bartowski was starting to believe that what she'd been told heard and seen with her own eyes, just possibly was the truth. But the General's next words put paid to that.

"Oh, no. I issued a sanction order on your brother once it became clear that he had escaped our dragnet. Trust me when I tell you that I took no pleasure in it. But the safety of the American people and the greater good must always remain paramount. And yes, I would have issued those orders to Agent Walker fully expecting her to do her duty."

Ellie looked at Sarah, horrified. "And you would have killed Chuck? Murdered my brother? What kind of people are you?"

Sarah looked to General Beckman for some form of guidance but found none. She didn't even glance at Sarah.

"I would have done my duty a year ago, perhaps even 6 months ago. But not now. I love your brother. I'm _in love_ with your brother. I would gladly trade my life for his. I sent Chuck conflicting signals, every time we got close, ok, every time_ I _got close, I'd push him away. If I showed any signs of being compromised, if my feelings would have endangered the mission, I would have been removed and reassigned. Never to see your brother again. He was everything I wanted in life but couldn't have. A normal guy, a normal relationship. Agents are trained to ignore these things. And I tried so very hard to do what the job required until I just couldn't do it any more."

"Agent Walker has my permission to pursue a relationship with your brother, I no longer see her feelings for Mr. Bartowski as a detriment to the mission. In fact, I see it as a tremendous plus. No one on earth would defend your brother better than Sarah Walker. No one."


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: THANK YOU TO THE SHARP READERS WHO NOTICED MY FUBAR and emailed the review. Embarrassed. Thank you for the reviews. It's time for Chuck to get back into the game. Fasten your seatbelts, put your trays in the upright position and prepare for takeoff!

**Fulton County Memorial Hospital – ICU **

There is a period of time, just before 'awake' ends and 'asleep' begins, when everything becomes clear. Solutions rise up from the subconscious to display themselves before the mind's eye. The problem is that this period of lucidity is so brief, so fleeting, that you hardly have time to absorb it all before The Moment of clarity is overtaken by sleep. And you can never remember those answers to life's problems.

But not for Chuck Bartowski. Intellectually, he _knew_ he was asleep, or maybe unconscious, or maybe even dying. But the images, the answers, were all there just waiting for him to become aware of them. He was in a near-constant state of what was known as _flashing. _And he was having the time of his life. So many answers, so much information.

The nurse at the monitoring station was startled from a particularly salacious daydream involving herself and a married doctor by the shrill alarms of the neurological module. A thermal printer began oozing out long strips of paper displaying the brain waves and activity levels of the newest patient in ICU. She didn't need to consult her protocol manual or review the chart for instructions. She'd been personally briefed by the head of Neuro that he was to be paged immediately, regardless of the time, in such an event.

She speed-dialed the doctor's mobile phone. "Doctor, it's Evelyn in Neuro. The John Doe in ICU is registering astonishing readings. Yes, I've started the print out. No, all other vitals are within acceptable norms. But the readings are maxing out to such an extent that they're off the scales. Yes, sir. I'll advise the General that you're on your way back in."

Leaving her station, she walked briskly to the conference room that had been appropriated by the General and her entourage. That little lady scared the crap out of her. She reminded her of some character out of the Wizard of Oz. That film had provided her sleeping subconscious with the seeds of nightmares that occasionally visited her even as an adult.

Knocking and entering as she'd been instructed, the nurse walked up to the seated General. "Ma'am, I've paged the neurologist. He's on his way back to the hospital. The John Doe in ICU is experiencing increased brain activity. His other vitals are all within acceptable ranges. I was told to advise you of this."

"Ask the doctor to stop in after he's had a chance to examine the patient and brief me. Thank you."

She almost ran from the room. That woman would be in her nightmares for days to come. So cold, so… She shuddered and returned to her monitoring duties. Who _was_ the John Doe and why was he so important?

Holiday Inn Express – Fulton County

Ellie Bartowski was enraged. How dare that uniformed munchkin dictate terms to her.

"You can see your brother when the physician in charge allows it. He's not going anywhere, Dr. Bartowski. And we have further things to discuss regarding your future, yours and Dr. Woodcombe."

The last sentence had been delivered with a tone Ellie Bartowski had not heard before but immediately recognized. The tone that said 'Sit down. Shut up. Listen."

"Devon, I can't believe you just sat there. Just sat there and said nothing. Did nothing. Is this the kind of support you'll bring to our marriage?"

"Ellie. Stop. No one said we couldn't see Chuck, just that we couldn't see him until his doctor gave the OK. I've heard you issue similar orders to nurses regarding family and friends of patients. Hell, I've given the same orders. You just don't like hearing them directed at you."

He raised a hand, stopping her from replying. He'd seen the deep breath she'd taken and knew she was preparing to deliver a tirade.

"The offer to be on-call physicians for the intelligence community in the Los Angeles area is fair and sounds like it could even be an interesting learning experience. And just think, the General sweetened the pot by offering to forgive our student loans. We won't have to scrimp and save and work double shifts and moonlight in emergency rooms just to save enough money to buy a house, start a practice. And we'll be in the loop as far as Chuck and Sarah and John are concerned. I thought you'd be thrilled by this."

"No, Devon. I'm _not_ thrilled. I think what the government is doing is fine. But I don't want my little brother involved in terrorist plots, violence and running around with spies. For God's sake, Devon, he's m little brother and…"

"No, Ellie, he's not your little brother. He's an operative of the United States government. You heard the General. He's critical to the country. He's unique and is treated as a national treasure, for crissakes. He's 28 years old. He's a man. Treat him like one. You wanted him to move on after Stanford and he did. He just didn't tell you about it and that's one of the main reasons you're so pissed off. And you're ashamed of his job at the BuyMore. I've seen you cringe when people at work as about Chuck."

"Devon…"

"No. No more. You should be proud of what Chuck is doing. He's saving more lives in a year than we will in a lifetime. Accept it. Accept him. And accept the fact that it looks like you and Sarah Walker may one day be related…" The last sentence was said with a grin. Awesome, Chuck, just awesome.

"Sure. If she doesn't have to kill him first. Maybe. But I don't think I can ever really trust her again."

"Fine. But I want to accept the offer. I want the opportunities this will offer as well as the obvious financial incentives. I'm going to sign on the dotted line. I hope you will, too. But with you or without you, I'm in this for the long haul. Now let's take a nap. Things will look better after we get some rest."

He smiled. She smiled. Not the special smile that meant "you're gonna get lucky" but it was better than the thin-lipped tight frown and he'd settle for that. For now.

Fulton County Memorial Hospital

Sarah Walker had paced the length of the hallway outside Chuck's area for what seemed like hours. She was deep in thought. The neurologist had been in Chuck's room for 15 minutes, gone back to the monitoring station to retrieve some print outs, gone back into the room and then asked to see the General. Alone.

That was almost an hour ago. He was still in there with the General and a revolving door of Blackbird agents came and went, acting as messengers. She knew something was up but couldn't tell what. Chuck would have said her "Spy senses" were on alert. That made her smile. There was so much about him that she loved.

She hadn't seen him yet. The doctors had been adamant. No visitors except staff. She'd heard the description of his injuries in excruciating detail. She knew that Chuck would have a long and painful road to recovery ahead of him. Physical therapy and perhaps more operations. It didn't matter to her one bit. She'd be there by his side as long as it took him to fully recover. Not because it was her job, her assignment, but because it was her choice. She chose Chuck over everything else. He had become her "everything else."

Now all she had to do was prove it to him. Prove that it was love not duty that drove her. Desire. Oh, yeah. Lots of that. Carnal desire. The kind that twisted your insides like the cravings of a crack addict.

Oh, but she was in love. And in lust.

But all that would have to wait until the object of her obsession was physically able to withstand the onslaught of being loved by Sarah Walker. And she was very impatient.

The one thing she never even bothered to think about was his facial scarring. OK, yes, it bothered her. But only because she knew it would bother him. She knew it would only add height to the hurdle she was already facing: Chuck's refusal to believe that a "supermodel" could ever love a nerd. He had absolutely no idea how fortunate she felt. There was more to loving someone than mere physical appearance. OK, if he looked like Jeff or Lester, she'd probably have had a hard time appreciating her inner Chuck. She smiled at that. She'd been smiling a lot in the past few hours.

She'd reached the end of the corridor and without thinking, spun on her heel and started lap.

"So, Doctor, you're saying that Mr. Bartowski is utilizing more areas of his brain, more capacity than base line studies show a human being is capable of?

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. He's using twice as much. And he's not convulsing. He's… well, for lack of a better word, he's _thinking._ He's in a medically-induced coma and this should not be happening. His brain waves, activity levels, everything about him is off the charts. And his vital signs are all as normal as could be expected after the traumas he's suffered and subsequent surgeries. It is nothing short of mind-boggling."

ICU

He was getting the hang of this. He found that if he let himself think about a subject and let his mind wonder in a form of free association, images would present themselves. And if he concentrated on one facet of the subject, the images would blur leaving one image clear and crisp. It was on this image that Chuck would flash. And he could concentrate on the remaining images and flash on those also. He figured that the Intersect itself functioned like a RAM search when he'd flashed before the accident. Now, well, he could scan a table of image contents by thinking of a subject and select facets of data stored in the Intersect by flashing on its image.

Totally cool.

He wondered again if he was dying or unconscious. He knew he wasn't asleep. He had remembered the accident in slow motion detail. It hadn't been a pleasant experience at all. He knew that his mind had filled in the blanks on a lot of things and that those fillers had been wrong. FULton, not FULcrum. Well, he'd ponder the hows and whys of that later. Right now he was curious about just how much control he had over data images stored in his brain.

He visualized Sarah Walker. He let his mind wander, free associating. Whoa. Best not to free associate about those…

A multitude of images appeared. He thought about her career. Many blurred and allowed two to stand out. He thought specifically about her assignments. One image became extraordinarily clear and he knew it was the file he'd inquired about. He flashed.

Murmansk, Russian Commonwealth, Elena Yevtushenko, assassination, successful

Quito, Ecuador, Helena Franz, infiltration and surveillance, successful

Brussels, Belgium, Gisella Francon, assassination, successful

And it went on and on and on… each successful.

Hmmm, did he really want to know about her seduction record? NO. Definitely not. Although he did wonder if the CIA had updated her current assignment and what it was. So he closed the image in his mind and accessed the other bright image.

Burbank, CA Sarah Walker, protection/seduction/termination, pending

Well, that was one question he'd had to have the answer to. He just couldn't let well enough alone.

He closed down the intersect and retreated to a corner of where ever the hell he was to ponder what he'd learned.

ICU Monitoring Station

'Oh, crap. Is he flat-lining?' All the readings were subsiding, the paper tape charting his brain waves showed an almost flat line of brain activity. Was he brain dead? Was he coding?

She dialed a number and accessed the hospital PA system.

"Code Blue ICU. Code Blue ICU."

Sarah Walker stopped her pacing and unconsciously looked at the speaker in the tiled ceiling. She knew what Code Blue meant. And Chuck was the only patient in ICU.

She took off running.

General Beckman was talking on her cell to her admin assistant in D.C. when the Code was called. She disconnected and walked rapidly towards the ICU unit. Bartowski was the only patient in ICU.

Seconds later she joined Sarah Walker looking in to the ICU area where doctors and nurses surrounded the bed of its only occupant. Instructions were being called out with no seeming purpose but it was a well-orchestrated battle plan played out in hospitals every day. The purpose was to prolong life and hold death at bay for at least a little while.

ICU

'The lights just went out, where ever I am. If I died, would I know it? Is this all there is? No warm white light with relatives and loved ones long departed there to greet you? Man, what a rip off. What did the hippies say? Death was the ultimate trip. That's why they saved it for last? Well, shit.'

"I got a sinus rhythm, he's back. That was weird. No reason to code. Just like his battery was giving out. A dimming of the life force?" Someone snickered. "Doctor John, what movies have you been watching? Dimming of the life force?"

"Well, whatever the hell it was just happened has no plausible explanation. Check the neuro tapes and see if there's anything there. His body's alive. Now we need to make sure we're not tending an organ donor farm. Good work, people. Nice hustle."

Sarah Walker listened to the medical team working on Chuck. "Organ donor farm?" She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud.

"Agent, he's in the best hands he can be, given the circumstances. I think you'd better call his sister in. Just in case."


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Sorry again about the fubar with chapter 13. I especially appreciate all of you who let me know that I erred, minutes after posting. Thanks a bunch.

_I have been listening to my evil muse… you'll find out just how evil the bitch-goddess is. She's shouted down the Charrah muse but I still managed to hear something – at least until…_

Moah14

The desk clerk put Sarah's call through and it rang and rang. No answer. They must really be dead to the world. She gasped, realizing how crass that sounded. Her Chuck, for all intents and purposes, was dead to the world. She felt numb. This isn't happening. She knew she'd awaken any minute now and it would all be a bad dream.

She motioned to one of the Blackbirds and asked him to drive over to the hotel and bring back the two doctors. Tell them it was an emergency. They could call her and she'd brief them en route. She was back in agent mode. Distance. She needed to distance herself from these events. She dialed the phone again and told the desk clerk the room number to call. She needed to do something. Not just stand around and wait for a doctor to deliver the grim verdict with cool professional detachment. She could hear his words, "I'm sorry for your loss."

The neurosurgeon approached the General. "He's stable again. I honestly have no idea what brought this on. It was as if his brain started shutting down all his autonomic functions. And that's impossible. I'm having a full head CT run to make sure none of our handy work has come undone. I'll have the results to you within the hour."

"Agent Walker, please accompany Mr. Bartowski for the procedure. I'm sure you'll find it interesting."

"Yes, ma'am."

Sarah followed the doctor into the ICU area. She hadn't seen Chuck up close, just a figure through the frosted glass.

His head was partially shaven for the surgery but it would grow back. And what hair could be seen was cut short and appeared to be dyed gray. Good thinking, Chuck. She was surprised. It's the small, subtle things that can change appearance the most drastically. Short of shaving his head, Chuck had opted for the easiest and most effective. Cut and dye your hair. Impressive.

She would mourn the loss of his curls until they grew back. They were one of his most endearing features. The curls and his smile. So many different smiles. If she really thought about it, she could probably catalog them all. Well, there would be plenty of time for that later. And she promised herself that she'd be the reason for all Chuck's new smiles.

His arm and leg were in casts. The laceration to his scalp and forehead had been stitched and might leave a scar. Big deal. She could live with the scar if she could live with him… a lot of living. The entire left side of his face was swollen and his eye was covered with a surgical dressing.

His chest was bear. A smattering of hair but most had been shaved during surgery. She could see where the chest tube entered between his ribs, a surgical dressing loosely covering the site. Walking around the bed to his 'uninjured' side, she was the powder burn on his right cheek. She shuddered and closed her eyes. She had come so close to losing him to his delusions. But she felt perversely proud of him. He kept his promises. He would not have been taken alive. Thank god for that deputy's quick thinking.

She took his hand gently in hers again marveling at the rightness of the fit. Even with the pulse-ox meter pinned to his fingertip, it still felt right. She gently squeezed his hand and raised it to her lips. So close to losing him.

A throat clearing behind her. Lowering Chuck's hand to the sheet she turned and saw the doctor. "We really need to hurry with this procedure. You'll have plenty of time when we return. He'll need a lot of attention. TLC. You up for that?" The last said with a knowing grin.

"Yes. He'll not lack for TLC while I'm around."

Holiday Inn Express

Between the banging on the door and the ringing of the phone, Ellie Bartowski awoke in a foul mood. Throwing Devon's arm off her, she got out of bed, pulled on a scrub shirt and pants and went to the door. Whoever it was banging on the damned door had better have a good reason. She was definitely cranky. Too much worry and too little sleep. Stress.

The agent had just raised his fist to pound on the door when it was thrown open by a short brunette with murder in her eyes.

"I'm sorry Doctor, but you and Dr. Woodcombe are needed at the hospital. I was sent to rouse you and provide transportation. Agent Walker called several times but no one answered the phone and she directed me to come and wake you and take you back. I'll be down in front of the lobby with transportation for you when you're ready to go. Please hurry."

Fulton County Hospital

Chuck wondered if he'd been asleep or just zoned out. It didn't matter. He was alert and curious. Plus he had a plan.

The intersect was clunky. It lacked elegance. The time needed to access and correlate data was an insult to any trained programmer and more so to a computer engineering major such as one Charles Irving Bartowski, near-graduate of the Leland Stanford School for Spoiled Genii.

The intersect was nothing more than a huge data base and so it needed a spiffy and simple but fast method of pulling data requested without relying on the visual cues to trigger it.

So, being the nerd that he was, he designed a mental query system using, for lack of an easier comparison, am SQL approach.

Pick a subject, designate columnar topics and submit for a report of just where the data might lie. Display the pertinent visual cues and Voila!, a relational database complete with switchboard access. In Chuck's world it took a couple of hours. In reality, its development spanned the time it took to wheel his bed from the ICU to the CT area.

Now for the test. Find all for John Casey. Display location, alias, mission, result. Mentally Chuck pressed an 'enter key' and sat back to await the results. Within milliseconds he saw a report. Looking at just the last 4 entries he decided to see just how John Casey came to be on his detail.

Munich, Germany, Franz Dorffmann, assassination, successful

Beirut, Lebanon, Yevgeny Zhukov, infiltration, assassination, successful

Zurich, Switzerland, Heinz Schumann, infiltration, assassination, failure.

Burbank, CA, John Casey, protective detail, pending.

So, Agent Walker was to be his executioner if and when it became necessary. Casey was just a bodyguard, not tasked with his termination. Very interesting. Apparently the CIA planned on his liquidation rather than the NSA. Or the NSA didn't trust John Casey to get the job done. What happened in Switzerland to cause him to be relegated to the task of bodyguard? What did John Casey do or not do that put him on the malignant dwarf's shit list? Or had those orders been changed after Arthur Graham's untimely demise when the replacement intersect went on-line? Inquiring minds wanted to know. Beckman had no great love for the CIA.

He mentally closed out the report and erased the query. Now that he knew how his head was screwed on he needed to know the variety and extent of the data in his poor head. Right now he had a headache. So that meant he wasn't dead, yet.

Crap. If a .45 caliber wad cutter couldn't do the job, what would it take to free him from this durance vile? A cannon? A mouthful of C4? Maybe a Semtex sweat band?

Well, he needed something to occupy his mind. Something that wouldn't hurt his head… or his heart. Hmmm, lets see what the earliest entries are to the intersect database… and once again Chuck's brain lit up like the White House Christmas Tree on the CT scans.

"So you see, Agent Walker, the red areas are those involved in whatever it is that's going on in his brain. As you can see from the CT scan we took when he was admitted and the current display, the red areas have increased since the initial scan.

"What's that black blob down there in the center, Doctor?"

"That's where we removed the earlier hematoma. The smaller 'blob' is where the bleeder from the accident was repaired."

"So this older hematoma was what caused Chuck to have hallucinations?"

"Probably. I don't think hallucination is the right word. More like selective hearing and misconstruing both aural and visual cues. Aphasia, both auditory and spoken is really quite common but usually disappears quickly with repair of the trauma. Now a true brain injury where damage to say, Broca's Area, well that's permanent and it takes a lot of therapy to over come. But that won't be his problem."

"So this caused him to freak out, break cover and plan and execute his escape?" The doctor had been thoroughly vetted and then briefed as to the circumstances leading to Chuck's accident.

"No. Not really. The hematoma and damage caused the miscues. The creative actions were all his doing. He just needed a push to demonstrate his abilities. We react differently to challenges. From what I've been able to piece together, our patient's actions were totally unexpected but very innovative and novel. His deception was almost his undoing. He wouldn't have lasted a week without medical intervention."

"When do you think you'll be able to allow Chuck to regain consciousness?"

"That depends entirely on his ability to heal and the absence of a repeat of this afternoon's Code Blue. I still don't see a reason for him Coding. Makes no sense at all."

"We'll be able to manage his pain but with head injuries and especially with this odd anomaly, it won't be easy. There will be some pain. I won't lie to you, but nothing we can't dull or blunt. I think we should be able to reduce the medication and let him regain consciousness in 2 or 3 days barring another incident."

Ellie and Devon arrived at the hospital after quickly dressing and meeting the agent outside the lobby although to Ellie the drive seemed to take forfrikkinever.

Arriving at the ICU suite, they noticed that it was empty.

"Nurse, where is Mr. Bartowski?" Devon asked.

"I'm sorry sir, but he's gone…" She never got to finish her sentence because a mother bear had suddenly appeared in her face.

"What do you mean 'he's gone'? Where? Who took him? Was he transferred? Discharged? What have those sinister black-suited bastards done with my brother?"

"Ma'am, if you'll just give me a minute and step back, I'll pull his chart. I just came on a few minutes ago and he was already gone."

"It's _Doctor_ Bartowski. Get me the damned chart. I'll read it myself."

Devon just looked at the nonplussed nurse and mouthed "Sorry" to her and shrugged his shoulders. Ellie Bartowski aka Momma Grizzly Bear was on the prowl and she was looking for her missing cub.

Chuck had reviewed some of the earliest entries on the Intersect. It was easy to sort by date and then select a subject and just browse through the data. He was already trying to design a much better way of accessing and cross-referencing and indexing his data finds.

What surprised and frustrated him was the amount of "printed material" in foreign languages. He began to sort through the files to try and find a "dictionary" to help him translate some of the documents. He was sure he could develop a routine that would automatically translate documents if he could only find a foreign language database. He could see the advantages of having images of the original documents but not having side-by-side translations in English was just poor tradecraft. Inefficient too.

Hmmm, he also wondered why there were no audio recordings. Maybe the intersect lacked a sound card? The thought tickled him. Or maybe he just couldn't hear them in his current environment. Another problem to solve. Well, at least he wasn't bored. Or thinking about a certain blonde heart breaker. Too late, images of Sara Walker assaulted him.

Sarah driving her car like a wild woman, grinning like an idiot. Sarah smiling, many images of that beautiful smile. Sleepy Sarah. Aggravated Sarah. Sarah holding a gun/knife/spatula… Spatula? Whoa, free association had its shortcomings. No, he remembered Sarah trying to help Ellie make pancakes. Super spy but a real klutz in the kitchen.

Sarah at the beach. In a bikini. In shorts. In jeans and a tank. In an evening gown that was so low cut in the front that he just knew… don't go there Chuck. You don't need the aggravation.

Besides, he knew now that he'd always been just the mark. Go, Agent Walker. Get close. Get closer. Get close enough so you won't miss but not get splattered with blood either. The consummate agent. He'd been a fool to ever believe that a nerd, no, face it, a _geek_, like him could have ever attracted a woman of her caliber let alone one who would return his feelings.

Depressed and feeling that nagging dull headache again, he retreated to the corner of what he now termed his 'inner sanctum', figuratively turned out the lights and zoned out. He had nothing better to do.

ICU

They'd just completed reconnecting all the various monitoring devices when the monitors began their screeching wails.

"He's coding again."

"Get her out of here!" That said to the nurse who spun a wide-eyed Sarah Walker around and shoved her out into the hall.

"Code Blue ICU, Code Blue ICU" announced the ceiling speakers in a soft voice. How did they ever hear such a quiet announcement? Such a devastating announcement. Someone had died. All hands on deck. Push back the night one more time.

"Agent Walker? Sarah? Sarah!" Ellie Bartowski had run down the hall to Chuck's room in ICU just in time to see a pale faced blonde unceremoniously shoved out into the hall. She'd heard the announcement and came running. Putting her hands on Sarah's shoulders and bringing her face up close she again tried to get the Agent's attention. "Sarah? Agent Walker report!"

Maybe she seen or heard too many of Chuck's StarTrek programs. Sounded like that French guy Pickle or something. But it worked.

Sarah snapped out of her fugue.

"Ellie, we were just coming back from the CT scan. Everything was just fine. I'd held his hand. And then when they hooked him up to the monitors all hell broke loose. They threw me out. I need to get back in there. Chuck needs me."

"No. You don't need to be in there. You'll just get in the way. And you won't like what you see but you have to understand it's a fight in there. A battle to the death _against_ death. And we doctors do not like to lose anymore than you spies do. Now, come over here and sit down and tell me what you've learned from the doctor about the CT scan."

The group of doctors and nurses hovering around Chuck's bed moved back when the lead doctor shouted "Clear" and placed the paddles.

[**ZAP]** The body convulsed, arching off the bed.

The EEG was flat. The EKG was a green line, flat, unwavering.

"Well, that's it. I'm calling it."

"Time of death…"


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Considering the comments from some of the reviewers, the dreaded "cliffhanger" should be eliminated from my repertoire. Well, no. I like cliffhangers. They keep you coming back for more. And your lamentations and anguish are music to the ears of my evil muse who has the upper hand at the moment. As to Chuck's "coding", well, it'll all become clear in this and the following chapters.

Sorry about the enormity of this chapter. I just couldn't find a natural place to end it with a hook.

**ICU**

The EEG was flat. The EKG was a green line, flat, unwavering.

"Well, that's it. I'm calling it."

"Time of death…"

The world came crashing down around Agent Sarah Walker. In a small voice, almost unheard, she said "oh…no."

Ellie Bartowski flung herself into the arms of her fiancé and broke down in tears, sobbing.

Devon just held her, resting his chin on her head and looked directly at Sarah Walker and said softly "I think she's going to want some time alone with her…"

He never finished that sentence. One of the attendings started to remove the IV from Chuck's elbow and the pulse-ox meter from his finger. He no longer required sustenance and no one was interested in his O2 sats anymore. When he tried to remove the clip from Chuck's finger …

"What the hell?" the doctor yelled. Chuck Bartowski had a death grip on the doctor's hand. A crushing grip that caused the doctor a lot of discomfort. More than a muscle reaction warranted. Much more.

And certainly more than should be expected from a still-warm corpse.

Lost in the shouting and commotion was a soft 'beep………beep………..beep" and the shushing sound of the EEG machine's thermal printer recording brain activity. One of the doctors crossed himself and started mumbling prayers. One of the nurses muttered about Lazarus and the saints and left to call her priest. She hadn't been to confession in years and felt a sudden and urgent need to unburden herself and seek absolution…just in case her grandmother was right. It never hurt.

**Medical Conference Room briefing – 2 hours later**

"Would one of you doctors please explain to me what the hell is going on with my operative? Was it incompetence that someone called a time of death? He obviously is not dead although he has prompted a religious revival among some of your staff. So which is it? Miracle or incompetence? I'm waiting, gentlemen."

A bevy of throat clearing erupted. Finally, "General, we don't have a clue. We did nothing wrong. He flat-lined, had zero brain activity and no heartbeat. That's the definition of clinically dead in any hospital on the planet. The man was a corpse, dead, ready for a dirt napping, had shuffled off this mortal coil, preparing to push up daisies, hell, he was fucking dead, d-e-a-d, dead. And then suddenly, he wasn't anymore. He had a heartbeat, breath sounds, brain activity, the only thing he _didn't _do was stand up and wave to the crowd."

"We need to be able to speak with Mr. Bartowski. Find out if there is anything wrong other than his injuries from the accident. How quickly can he safely be brought out of the induced coma?" General Diane Beckman could certainly understand the reaction of the medical team. She herself was flabbergasted when the news of Chuck's death and minutes later Casey's "Goddamn, General, the boy's _alive_" reached her ears.

"We discussed that earlier, General, and we see no reason not to bring him around, at least not medically. We believe we can mange the pain levels without any risks. We're just not certain about the emotional effects of his attempted suicide."

"Doctors, Chuck Bartowski did not attempt suicide. He attempted to remove himself as a potential threat to the welfare of our country. It was an act of desperation and self-sacrifice, but not suicide. We can split semantic hairs all day, we can debate how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but it was not suicide and all such references will be expunged from any and all of your reports. Is that understood?"

"Now, bring Mr. Bartowski out of his induced coma as quickly and as safely as possible. Begin immediately. I think all the necessary counseling and support will be provided by his family and friends who truly understand his actions. Dismissed."

Dr. Eleanor Faye Bartowski wasn't sure if she agreed with the General's assessment of Chuck's actions. She truly believed that Chuck believed that Sarah Walker was going to kill him, terminate him, sanction him, whatever sanitized term that spies used nowadays for government-approved murder. Just how much 'support' could Chuck expect from the Agent.

She wondered again how Chuck could love a woman even _he_ believed would kill him if so ordered. How could he ever trust her knowing that her assignment might require his death at her hands? And Sarah Walker had professed her love for her brother, had even sought "official" dispensation for the purpose of pursuing a relationship with her brother. Would she be a good little Nazi and follow orders and terminate Chuck if her superiors so ordered? Or would she turn her back on her training and conditioning and save her brother?

Was love such a tenuous thing in the spy world? Thank God she had Devon.

**ICU Unit**

"Ok, we've terminated his drug therapy and installed a device to allow the patient to self-medicate as needed. It's foolproof and presents no danger of overdosing. Now all we have to do is wait and monitor his condition. I'd conservatively estimate 3 – 5 hours until he's conscious enough to be fairly lucid. At that point we'll conduct a neuro exam and then he's all yours. Just remember, being in a coma is _not _sleeping. He'll be tired and probably will fall asleep mid-sentence so don't panic if that happens. It's normal." As normal as anything about this case could be.

"Thank you, doctors. That will be all."

General Beckman turned to Devon, Ellie, Casey and Sarah. "You all might as well get some rest. Plan on being back here in 3 hours. From that point on we'll play it by ear as the situation develops."

Casey drove Sarah and the others back to the Hotel. It'd been a long day and a nap was just what the doctor ordered. They all agreed to meet in the lobby in 2 ½ hours and return to the hospital in time to visit Chuck. Hopefully a wide-awake-willing-to-talk Chuck. Any other time you couldn't shut him up. He'd probably be reticent and surly. Being banged up did that.

Deputy Brunner stopped by the hospital. He asked to see the General.

"General, I have Mr. Bartowski's personal effects from his car. I'm sure someone can take care of them for him until he's able. Also," unwrapping Chuck's Model 1911 .45 pistol, "I thought he might want this back. I cleaned it for him. It's in great shape."

The man's courtesy and understanding of the situation touched Beckman. "Thank you, Deputy Brunner. I'm sure Mr. Bartowski will want all of his possessions, especially the pistol. Once again the NSA owes you."

"Nope, figure we're even. I keep track of crime, you handle the damned terrorists. Just a matter of perspective. Well, take care of that young man. He's something."

"Yes. I agree. He's something all right".

The pain started below his eye and then radiated outward from there. The light was too bright so he closed his eyes, actually eye. He didn't seem to have much control over the left side of his body. He couldn't move his arm or leg. He couldn't open his eye. Ok. Maybe he'd just go back to sleep and hope when next he awoke it would be in his bed in Burbank.

The pain woke him. It felt like someone was pushing on the side of his face. He couldn't open his left eye. He had no idea where he was, only that he smelled disinfectant, so that meant either Ellie was stealing cleaning products or he was in the hospital. At least he hoped it was a hospital and not a room someplace deep within the bowels of the earth. Bowels of the earth. He knew what the bowel was. He was living with 2 doctors. He'd had biology. The bowel was the lower intestine leading to the rectum. So he literally could be in the asshole of the world. Somehow that appealed to his sense of irony. Especially since he felt like shit.

He was horribly thirsty. Was this part of the softening up process Fulcrum used? Or was it just someone's idea of punishment for running. He remembered the accident. Just bits and pieces. He wasn't sure if it was a memory or something his mind conjured up but he had a distinct impression of a body flying out of a car. He tried calling out…but all he heard was a muffled "mwaaaar". He wasn't even sure he'd spoken and if he did, it sure as hell didn't sound like "water". He fell back asleep.

When he awoke the next time someone had dimmed the lights and he tried to open his eyes. His left eye felt glued shut. The right eye opened momentarily then squeezed itself shut. Too bright!

He felt a cool hand on his brow and fingers lifting his eyelid and shining a laser beam into his retina. He tried closing his eye but it was held open by strength greater than the muscles of his eyelid.

"Pupil reacting normally to light sources. He's experiencing sensitivity to light but that's to be expected. When the swelling subsides on the left cheek we'll check that pupil. No sense adding to his pain. Mr. Bartowski? Mr. Bartowski?"

Chuck wheezed and croaked a response. 'waaaar'. Ok, sounds like… Hasn't this idiot ever played charades? He was frikkin' thirsty. His mouth was the Sahara desert. His throat felt like someone had sandpapered it. How could he speak? Frikkin' idiot. Must be a government doctor. The bedside manner of a toad.

Sarah Walker knew from painful experience what Chuck was experiencing. She picked up poured a glass of water and put in a straw. She glanced at the doctor who nodded and she leaned over and put the straw to Chuck's lips.

"Just a bit for now, Chuck. Just so you can talk to us."

"Chuck, Ellie and Devon are here. They're right outside. They've been briefed on what you do, what _we_ do, they know about Casey and I and they've met the General. This was all a terrible misunderstanding. When you're feeling better we'll show you the surveillance tapes that recorded our conversation in the Castle. The one you overheard. The one you only heard bits and pieces of. And those were totally out of context. But for now, take a little more water and I'll let Ellie take my place."

Chuck never opened his eye. Just listened to her voice. Imagined her face. Well, he wasn't going to fall for that act again. Too many mixed signals, too many rejections, too many lies. And he knew what her assignment was in the long run. Assassination. Nope. He would build up walls around his heart and prepare another escape plan. He'd learned a great deal from his one attempt. He wouldn't fail the next time. No. The failure would be Sarah Walker's. A blot on her perfect string of successful missions.

Sarah took Chuck's hand in hers marveling again at the rightness of the fit. "I'll go get Ellie. She's been frantic with worry. And Devon? Well, he thinks you're awesome. How's that for a change?" She kissed his palm and left to get Ellie and Devon.

When Ellie Bartowski saw her brother awake and reasonably alert but with closed eyes, she had a flashback to when Chuck had been 6 or 7 and had had his tonsils out. He had the same look on his face then as now. He was still a little boy to her. Devon was right. She had to accept the fact that Chuck had grown up, that he was a man with an awesome responsibility.

She leaned over and hugged her brother. Chuck wanted nothing more than to relax and just let it all go. But he couldn't do that. When Ellie started to pull back, Chuck put his good arm around her, holding her in the embrace.

"Ellie, you can't trust these people at all. Don't believe a single thing they tell you. All is not what it seems. Especially with Sarah Walker. She's an assassin and if things don't go well, it's her job to terminate the intersect. And since I'm the intersect, well…" he whispered to her.

She finally pulled away. "Oh, Chuck, General Beckman has explained all this to us, showed us a surveillance video and even admitted that she'd ordered you "sanctioned" when you ran away. But it's all right now. And Sarah. Chuck I was always right about Sarah. She does love you and the General has approved of your relationship, even gave Sarah her blessing saying it would be good for the mission. Don't worry. You're just confused. First the hematoma and then that horrible accident. Enough to make anyone a tad bit crazy."

"Everyone here is impressed with your exercise. That's what General Beckman is calling it. I think it drives Casey crazy because basically the General is ignoring the circumstances but is delighted with your initiative and innovative style. Her words, not mine. And I don't think she's easily impressed either."

"Casey won't admit it but even he's impressed. He thinks you have great potential. He says now maybe you won't have to stay in the car as much as before. I guess that's a big thing, right? He won't say much but even Sarah laughs when he says it."

"And Devon, well, he's amazed. He thinks you're awesome. So there are two Awesomes in my family, a Captain and an Operative."

Hesitation. "And I owe you an apology. And Sarah, too. I think now I really understand how things between you were 'complicated'. I had no idea just how much stress you were under and I didn't do much to ease it. I'm really sorry. I'll talk to Sarah about it later. Now rest, baby brother. That's the last time I'll call you that."

She smiled, hugged him again gently and turned to leave. "Ellie, c'mere." Chuck extended his arm like he wanted to hug her. He pulled her close and said "Ellie, it's all a lie."

She pulled away and looked at him. Almost with pity. He has been through a lot and he's still processing all the crap that's been thrown at him. He's probably confused.

"Get some sleep, Chuck, we'll talk later. Things will be clearer in the morning. I'll see you tomorrow and we'll talk some more. And I'll let Devon come in this time, too. I just wanted it to be just us, just one more time."

Chuck watcher her leave and sighed. Ellie Bartowski was drinking the General's special kool aid and falling hook, line and sinker for the party line. He knew she thought he was around the bend, nuts, bonkers, off his meds, whatever. Well, she was right about one thing, he definitely needed some sleep.

He didn't know how long he'd slept but he knew it would be sometime before sleep came again. He'd dreamed of Sarah. Of their wedding ceremony. When the minister said, "til death do you part" she looked at him and smiled sadly and said "I do. I do love you, Chuck. But this is the way it has to be. Orders. Until death. I have another assignment and so we must part." And she'd taken out one of her razor sharp blades and slit his throat. And didn't get a drop of blood on her dress. The minister asked her if she wanted another groom since this one was dead and she smiled sweetly and nodded and Bryce appeared.

Wow, crazy dreams. Must be the meds. It was more likely the pain he was in, so he pressed the self-medicator and fell back into a restless doze as the Demerol worked its magic.

Sarah Walker had taken a chair from the nurse's station and was sitting as close to Chuck's bed as possible. She was holding his hand, deep in thought. He'd really outfoxed the best of the best. And it had almost been his undoing. Even now, knowing that he was out of danger and would fully recover given time, she still worried. Would he be the same Chuck she'd fallen in love with? Would he forgive all those times she'd thrown his love back in his face, slammed countless door in his face, rejected his feelings, and rejected _him? _

How many times could a man have his love thrown back in his face before he said "Enough" I can't, I _won't_, do this anymore."

Chuck once told her that the definition of insanity was repeating the same exact actions over and over and each time expecting a different outcome. Would he try just one more time or would he finally say "Enough of this insanity".

The next time Chuck awoke, he felt a moment of panic. He couldn't move his right arm now. Devon had gone into delightful detail of his injuries when he'd talked with Chuck. Most of the technical medical jargon went right over his head and Devon saw the glazed look and recognized it from his own patients.

"Chuck, simply put, you've broken your body, man. You have a dressing on your forehead covering a zillion sutures from a laceration. Hey, bro, don't worry. Ladies like scars… and I don't think it'll be all that noticeable. The plastics guy here did an awesome job."

"You've got a cast on your left arm from just above the elbow to the hand. You won't be able to move your wrist. About 6 weeks of wearing a sling and then the cast comes off. We'll work on muscle rebuilding at home on that. Piece of cake."

"You busted your left leg pretty badly. No pins or screws or any nasty junk. Just a clean break. Crutches will be your mode of transport for 8 weeks or so. We'll work on rebuilding your leg muscles with long walks and slow jogs. I'll have you in a triathlon competition by the end of summer. We'll do it together. Awesome. "

"Now, the bad news. You broke several ribs and one of those punctured your left lung. Don't panic. It's been fixed up better than new. You got a chest tube that should come out in a day or two. It's to drain any fluid from the lung and prevent pneumonia. It'll hurt like hell, Chuck, but you have to cough when you need to, bro. If you don't, fluid will build up in your lungs and you'll have pneumonia. Not awesome. More people die in hospitals of complications than injuries. So hack away when you need to. But understand it's going to hurt. Luck of the draw, bro."

"But you can still wield your Wii with your right hand, wipe your ass and pick your nose, and scratch the "boys" in the morning so it's not so bad. All things considered, Chuck my brother, you're a damned lucky dude and should be back on your feet and 100% in 3 months. Not like the poor bastard who hit you. No seatbelt, drunk as a skunk and dead as a doornail."

So why couldn't he move his arm? And why was it wet? Had an IV popped?

He opened his one good eye and looked down. All he saw was a mass of blonde hair and he knew it was Sarah Walker. Was she asleep? He wondered just what she was doing there. His hand was encased in a warm grip. Holding his hand? He squeezed her hand gently and felt a returning squeeze.

She sat upright, a blush coloring her cheeks. Her nose was red and her eyes were puffy. So that's why arm was wet. Why would she be crying? I was asleep. No need to play the girlfriend cover card.

'Shit' thought Sarah. 'I woke him. He needs his sleep'.

She palmed her eyes, clearing the residue of tears. She didn't want him to think something was wrong. That she was worried about him. That his condition was worse than he'd been told. She knew Devon had informed his "Awesome bro" of his injuries in vivid detail.

"Chuck, sorry. It's been a difficult time. I, _we,_ almost lost you. When you ran. Your accident. The Code Blues. I'm sorry, I know you don't like PDAs but I just wanted to touch you, know you're still here. I'm really sorry. I'll let you get back to sleep. You need your rest."

Chuck took her hand in his. "I just woke up. I'm not exactly physically exerting myself. You don't have to run off, do you?" 'Damn, Chuck, you sound like a puppy. Man up'. Oh, God, now he was channeling Casey!

"What Code Blues, what are you talking about?"

"Uh, Chuck, maybe you better talk to Ellie or Devon about that. I was in the hallway, just watching and waiting. I don't know anything technical, really." Liar. You know he was pronounced dead. You heard that. Everyone heard that. You lost him. And it was your fault, Agent.

"Wait, I _died? _What? How? How many times? How many times did they call a Code Blue on me? Sarah Walker, what aren't you telling me?" Chuck was really getting pissed. He'd been out it, sure, but now he found out he'd _died a couple of times!_ He tried to push himself into a sitting position. A big mistake.

"Ow! Ow!" He fumbled with his drug dispenser. Ahhhh, better. God bless the man who invented self-pain-management.

"Chuck, you can't sit up yet. Calm down. You're going to hyperventilate and that can't be good with a collapsed lung. Please, don't do this to me again. I can't lose you now that everything's working out for us." She was weeping openly now, aghast at what she'd caused. It never occurred to her that he didn't know about the codings from Ellie.

"Chuck, calm down and breathe, nice and easy. Please calm down. I'm going to go get Ellie or Devon to explain all of this."

Sarah's mind was of two minds: get Ellie and have her explain as best she could what had happened or approach one of his doctors and ask him to give Chuck an explanation. Ellie won out.

She went to the ICU waiting room and saw Ellie and Devon absorbed in a crossword puzzle. Well, she better have her intellect cap on. Chuck had questions and Ellie needed to provide the answers.

"Ellie. Chuck needs you. He doesn't understand about the Code Blues. He's really upset. I didn't mean to upset him, it just sort of slipped out."

Ellie Bartowski took one look at Sarah's face and took off down the hall at a brisk "doctor's pace." A cross between speed walking and jogging. She's always been told that a running doctor panicked patients.

Sarah watched Ellie leave and looked over at Devon. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. For everything. I've really messed up Chuck's life, haven't I." Not a question, Devon noted, not even rhetorical. A statement of fact. Sarah Walker blamed herself for all this. Devon felt she needed a 'good listen' so he moved beside her on the couch.

"Want to explain what you mean by that, Sarah?"

And she did. In exquisite detail, letting down all her shields and opening up for the first time in years. She told him everything about her and Chuck. The false starts, the 'handlings' and manipulations, the mixed signals, the rejections, his fears and desires, her fears and desires, everything. About Bryce and Chuck and her past and choices. About the need to avoid compromise with her asset. About the cover, the lies and manipulation, how she came to love him, respect him, fall _in love_ with him, about how she had been unwilling to admit any of it to herself or to Chuck because of the damned job. About how she felt so loved and secure around him and his family. And finally about her decision to turn her back on her career and be with her Chuck if the General hadn't agreed to her request. How she would kill anyone who threatened him with harm.

She got a good listen.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Ok, things are going to pick up a bit. If you're curious about the Praetorian Guard there are a lot of excellent discussion on the net. Wikipedia is not the pinnacle of information. The pistol Chuck's been using off and on was designed by John Browning and licensed to Colt Industries and adopted by the US Army in 1911 after 5 years of trials and political crap. Hence the designation 1911Model .45 A1. I carried one for 10 years. I apologize for not referring to it correctly. And apologize to the purists among you.

John Casey was enjoying a conversation with Chuck Bartowski. Yes, _enjoying_. He'd reluctantly allowed Ellie and Sarah to badger him into sitting with Chuck for just a few minutes.

"Casey, you know he looks up to you. Go on in there and ask him about his planning and execution. I don't think he'll share much with me right now. Something's off between us. I'd love to know how he pulled off the cell phone routing trick. Maybe he'll use baby words so you won't feel technically challenged." The last was spoken with a shit-eating grin.

"Walker, don't push it. I admit he spoofed us. He convinced us he was where he wasn't. But I'm sure it's nothing a normal agent could do. Just more of his computer voodoo. Field agents do not have the time or resources to pull off voodoo magic."

"Bullshit, John Casey. Chuck had less than a few hours, limited resources, he couldn't use his computer and he sure as hell didn't do it before he left Burbank. So, you going to 'man up' and talk to him or sit here licking your wounds and making excuses?" She loved throwing his own words to Chuck back in his face. He so deserved them.

"Damn. You Feminazis just won't let a guy enjoy anything, will you? Ok. I'll go talk to the Nerd King if you'll just get off my ass."

And so he did. And he found himself enjoying Chuck's version of channeling McGyver.

"So let me get this straight. You bought two prepaid phones, used one to call the other that had been call forwarded to Sarah's cell phone? That's how you had us thinking you were heading down to Ole Mexico?"

"Actually, I bought three. You taught me you could never have enough firepower. And cell phones were my primary weapons. Then I just turned one on, boxed it up and had it shipped to me at the Greyhound Terminal in San Diego. Simple, really. Any call made to phone #2 would automatically route to Walker's cell phone. It would work until the battery charge failed. But it gave me a 5-hour window on misdirecting you."

Casey appreciated the firepower comment. Maybe Chuck did listen on occasion, just not to "Stay in the Truck, Chuck" instructions.

Casey noticed the use of the last name "Walker" not "Sarah". He wasn't so emotionally shut off that he couldn't feel the tension radiating off Chuck's body whenever the conversation involved the subject or even mention of one Agent Sarah Walker.

And it wasn't _sexual _tension. It was as if the very mention of her name set off internal alarms and stimulated instinctual fight-or-flight responses. This did not make sense. Especially since Beckman caved to Sarah's insistence that the Intersect could be better protected if allowed to pursue a relationship with her. A real relationship, not a cover. What had happened between them? Was he still gun-shy about the whole termination thing? The sanction order was cancelled. So what was going on there?

"So you really didn't buy the car as part of your escape and evasion plan? That was a good choice by the way. Older, not so snazzy as to attract notice. An older person's car. Is that what prompted you to dye your hair? " He figured a subject change was in order.

"Nope. I was feeling a little burned out. All the intersect crap, work crap and Ellie crap. I decided to just take a road trip. I was going to go through channels at the BuyMore but well, I guess my plans were overtaken by events. I lucked out on the car. Just one of those things. Right time and right place. And definitely the right price."

When Chuck told Casey how much he'd paid for his glorious but short-lived ride he laughed.

"Man, Chuck, next time I go to buy a car I want you to do the dickering."

"So, you were heading to the Canadian border? We'd have nabbed you there, y'know?"

"Actually, no. I was heading for Moab. I figured the last place anyone would look for a fugitive was outside the jail. I really didn't have any of the details worked out in my mind yet. I needed an ID so I could get a job and a driver's license, and a better way of disguising myself. Hell, I didn't want to be a 50-year-old man in a 28 year-old body. I'd never get a date!"

Casey shared in Chuck's laughter. He was right. Moab would have been far down on the list of places to look for Chuck Bartowski. And he was also right about the need for a new ID. Maybe when they got back to L.A. he'd mention some sources to Chuck. Just mention them, of course.

He liked this new and improved Chuck. Even if it was a beta version. 'Shit, I'm even talking nerd now. I definitely need a vacation. Maybe two weeks in Afghanistan with the Marines?'

Then he had a chilling thought. Chuck had mentioned 'overtaken by events', an intelligence term for when plans were obsolete before implementation because of changes in the tactical environment. The kid's got some depth. And some irregular sources of information. This would bear further investigation.

Just then, General Beckman knocked on the frame of his doorless room. Casey jumped to his feet but Beckman motioned him to remain seated.

"Mr. Bartowski, I intend to have a long conversation with you at some later point when you're feeling better than road kill but I have the feeling you'll appreciate this more."

Road kill? Casey glanced at Chuck and noticed how his eye was narrowing, almost flashing but not quite. Ok, he did look a little like road kill. But for Beckman to make a funny? No way!

She handed Chuck a towel-wrapped object. He knew what it was. He'd taken one of the motel towels and had rewrapped his pistol in it after he'd cleaned it. He'd gotten grease and gun oil all over the original wrapping.

"I want to see how you manage to cock that thing one-handed, Chuck. Don't see how you did it." Said Casey. The General raised an eyebrow but nodded to Chuck as if giving permission.

"Well, I wedged it against my stomach and pulled back on the slide receiver like this…and then let the receiver re-seat itself like this… and flicked off the safety like this…[**CLICK]**.

The NSA agent suddenly felt ill at ease. Beckman had just given an operative of questionable mental stability a loaded firearm and asked him to demonstrate how he would jack a round into the chamber. Not necessarily a smart move, General. Casey eased aside his suit coat to have easy access to his own weapon.

'Don't do this, Chuck' Casey thought. 'I don't want to have to kill you if you point that fucking cannon at either the General or me.'

"Put your hands on your thighs, palms down, Casey. Slowly. I feel better when your weapon is securely holstered. I'm just complying with the General's request, not planning her assassination." This was said in a tone Casey had never heard from Chuck. It said, 'Don't fuck with me, do what I tell you'. So he did. But he was prepared to speed draw and take Chuck out if the muzzle of his weapon drifted towards the General.

"And then I put the muzzle under my chin like this and pulled the trigger."

"Like this." And he did.

Casey lunged towards Chuck when he said '…the trigger. Like this."

A/N: I'm sorry. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Blame the evil muse, homemade lasagna I had for dinner or the many VO & waters I've imbibed. I just couldn't pass up the chance to do it one more time.

[**Click**] The sound of the firing pin striking nothing seemed as loud as a steel girder dropped on a tin roof.

The click stopped Casey mid-lunge. No round in the chamber. Probably none in the magazine. He looked at General Beckman. She was smiling.

"I see, Mr. Bartowski. And how did you know that the weapon was unloaded?"

"Well, I didn't." The smile melted from Beckman's face like an ice cube in the Arizona sun.

"But I figured you'd have more sense than to give a brain-damaged asset of the US government a way to either escape – again - or raise hell until he was taken out. And it didn't feel right. Not heavy enough. "

Beckman nodded and handed him a fully loaded magazine.

"Mr. Bartowski, I think you should begin to take a more proactive role in your own protection. Especially since the nature of your relationship with Agent Walker is about to undergo a few fundamental changes."

'Did Diane Beckman, General and Director of the NSA just fucking _giggle_?' Casey could not believe his ears. Chuck, on the other hand, ignored it entirely.

"Would the General care to expand on her comments? Specifically regarding the words 'nature' and 'fundamental'? I would certainly appreciate any clarification the General might provide." Chuck would have been standing at attention like a West Point plebe if he'd been able to stand at all. His eyes were boring holes in her forehead.

"What can I say, Chuck. Shit happens." And she smiled and turned and left the room leaving a stunned Major John Casey and a pensive Charles Irving Bartowski behind.

"Shit happens? And she called you 'Chuck'? What leverage do you have over the General? That's just plain unnatural. And General Diane-Get-'Em-By-the-Balls-and-Their-Hearts-and-Minds-Will-Follow-Beckman does not giggle.

Chuck was staring intently at the space just vacated by the General. "Casey, I have absofuckinglutely no idea. None at all. All women are a mystery to me. _That_ one ranks in the top 10 in my limited experience."

Two hours later

"So, you're telling me that General Beckman handed him a pistol and… and… and after all that, she _giggled_? And then just left you guys there? What did Chuck say?"

"Nothing. Well, nothing important. More like man-talk. Sarah, I think you need to have a long heart-to-heart with Chuck. When the General didn't answer his request for clarification, and you should have heard his tone and delivery, sounded like a West Point puke, he just asked me to let him sleep. He was yawning and I figured it was as good a time as any to bring you up to speed on our boy's antics."

"Casey, you said he threatened you for reaching for your weapon? That doesn't sound like Chuck at all."

"No, it sure the hell didn't. I've never heard him use that tone of voice before. Even when he was Agent Carmichael. It was cold and direct. A tone that said 'don't fuck with me if you want to live'. Not the slightest doubt in my mind that he would have shot me if I'd gone for my piece. But the really spooky part is that Beckman looked like she approved of his actions. I'm telling you, I think Beckman's playing us, you and me, and has a new agenda. And I don't like it one bit."

"So maybe I'll bring this up when I talk to Chuck. He needs to sleep. Maybe this is all a delayed reaction to the accident, the surgery. Hell, I don't know at this point what's going on with Chuck. He seems distant and aloof."

"Sarah, one last thing. You may not have noticed but I'll bet everyone else has. He never calls you Sarah. It's either Agent Walker or just plain Walker. Never Sarah. And that's in conversation with you. He also refers to you that way in conversations with others when your name comes up. You better plan on that chat sooner than later. He sounds more like the old Beckman than our Chuck."

"If you don't believe me, talk to Ellie. Hell, talk to Ellie anyway. She's been his sister a helluva lot longer than you've been his handler. Can't hurt to get another opinion. Can it?"

Praetorian Guards, outside the emergency room entrance, Fulton County Memorial Hospital

He jokingly referred to himself and his partner as #23 and #24. Since joining the elite unit a few months ago he'd come to realize that it would be quite a while before he was privy to the workings of the inner circle of General Beckman's staff. And that bothered him. It bothered him that he was tasked with maintaining watch on this door. Twelve on and twelve off. No unrelated conversations. No grab ass. No cigarette breaks (he didn't smoke and Beckman didn't approve of smoking) nothing but dull, boring hours watching for someone he probably wouldn't recognize and waiting for his ear bud to inform him of his shift change or a change of assignment.

He didn't even know why he was here. Well, he knew that Beckman had some guy up on the top floor in ICU and he must be important (and thus, valuable) but he had no clue. Beckman believed in 'need to know' and compartmentalization. If you had no need to know, you didn't get to know. Only the 'Select four' as he derisively referred to the senior-most agents, were privy to who he was and why he was so damned important. That bothered him a lot.

He had been approached on more than one occasion by agents and/or elements of NGOs (Non-Governmental Organizations) who were willing to part with significant sums of money in offshore accounts if he was willing to play nice and share. So far he'd resisted temptation. And had informed his superiors of the attempts and received a lot of Brownie Points and Atta-Boys. But now, with this mystery man being so well guarded and with such draconian security measures in place, he felt he might have something worthwhile to offer one of the organizations and so he'd put out feelers to see if they were interested. The opening bid had staggered him.

Word had come down from on high that they should be ready to convoy a medical team and ambulance to an undesignated location. Due to medical reasons, air transport via helicopter or aircraft was not feasible. With his 12 hours off he made further contacts, opened up negotiations and made preparations to become an incredibly rich man. All this because of an unknown man attracting so much attention and security within the intelligence community. Even without a name or photo, the bidding had reached $5,000,000 in 3 days. All because of the attention warranted by the prolonged presence of the Director of the NSA from her lofty peak at Ft. Meade, Maryland. All he had to do was accept the highest bid and make arrangements to deliver the goods.

Life was good. And going to get a lot better soon.

Conference Room

The medical staff had all voiced their opinions and concerns regarding the relocation of Mr. Bartowski to an unknown medical facility. Air travel was definitely out. Altitude and collapsed lungs did not mix well. And transport by helicopter was also out. Not only would the distance require refueling but the availability of a Pave Low or similar special operations aircraft was not within the time frame required. They were thanked profusely for their service and contributions and dismissed with reminders that the Non-Disclosure Agreement each had signed carried severe penalties if breached. None of the staff doubted that the penalties would be terminal. That had been made quite clear from the start.

It was decided to take the Praetorian Guard, the asset and handlers as well as Drs. Bartowski and Woodcombe via ground transportation. A special low-profile ambulance was on its way from the Presidio and would arrive momentarily. It was equipped with state-of-the-art communications, trauma and medical equipment. It would be driven by two of the General's detail and Major Casey and Dr. Woodcombe would accompany the asset providing security and medical support.

Once the asset and his "entourage" arrived at the secure facility in Moab, the remainder of the personnel would return to their normal duties.

The General could no longer stay away from her post at NSA. She was leaving as soon as the briefing adjourned and after she had a discussion with Mr. Bartowski.

'Well, looks like Chuck's getting his road trip after all' thought Casey. Not exactly how he planned it but he'd be at the same destination, just a lot more comfortable and secure.

Chuck was bored. And a bored Chuck was a dangerous Chuck. Just for the hell of it he'd run an inquiry to see if there were any maintenance specs on the .45 caliber pistol he had. Surprise, surprise! He'd flashed on the specs and the assembly instructions. He'd already field stripped and reassembled his pistol in respectable time. He also now knew the location of similar documentation for every weapon in the US arsenal, the majority of its allies and almost all of its real or potential enemies.

He also decided to research one General Diane NMI Beckman. No surprise there. She was too short to carry more than one name… Hmmm, West Point graduate, assignments in intelligence through the Carter years, developed the planned operation to rescue the Iranian Embassy hostages. Hmph, that wasn't exactly a stellar moment in her career. Never married, engaged to… KIA Iran, 1979. That sucked. He flipped through the remainder of the 'file' until his eyes caught on the words "Medical Retirement Recommended". General Beckman had cancer. And must be currently in remission since the records were two years old.

Now that rocked his world. He never would have believed that Beckman was mortal. She seemed bigger than life, unassailable, like a bastion built on a rock, incapable of any human emotion. Maybe that explained her current behavior, her attitudinal 180s. The prospect of dying probably changed one's perspective on a lot of things. Like letting someone have what she'd never had. Too bad she'd picked an assassin as the recipient of her largesse.

He closed out her file image. He felt ashamed that he'd discovered her secret by invading her privacy. He wasn't a snoop. Hell, he'd never even read Ellie's diary. Well, only that once. And he'd been appalled at entries regarding her boyfriend and S-E-X. She'd been 16 almost 17. He always assumed she was perfect. It was disturbing to find out she was normal. He never read her diary again.

He strolled though indices he'd created in his mind looking for something to spend time researching. What he assumed took over and hour had taken just 4 minutes by his room clock. Sometimes he missed his watch. GPS locator notwithstanding.

He indexed training aids and found what he was looking for. An entire collection of language instruction and translation files. He accessed the images cues for Middle Eastern languages and selected Farsi. Seemed only right since his very existence had become a farce. He opened the first file. Sub file images appeared. He chose the first file and flashed on its image.

And zoned out for a while. He didn't know how long he'd been "off line" but he felt his shoulder being shaken and someone repeating his name. He opened his good eye and saw General Beckman.

"Hi General. What can I do for you?" Beckman looked at him, smiled and replied "I wanted to talk to you about the future. Your future and Agent Walker. Can you spare a few minutes?" He nodded. Not really wanting to have any such conversation with the General.

"For some unknown reason, you have captured the heart of one of our premier agents. I don't know how you did it. I don't want to be privy to any gory details. I just wanted you to know that there are no longer any fraternization restrictions. You and Sarah Walker are free to pursue your relationship and feelings without danger of her being reassigned for being compromised. A blind person could see she was compromised almost from the very first operation you went on."

"Why are you telling me this. Why are you doing this?"

"Because you are important to the future. And Sarah Walker is important to you and I wanted to ensure that you both had a future together. It's just as simple as that. No Machiavellian schemes. No maskirovka. Nothing sinister. She's not being "assigned" to love you, Chuck."

"You've been honest with me, General, so I'll be honest with you. I've been able to access more of the data in the intersect since my accident. I don't need external visual cues. I can go where I want and view what I want. And I know that Agent Walker has been tasked as my handler with options for seduction and… and termination. And Major Casey has been tasked only as one member of my protective detail."

"Go on, Mr. Bartowski. I'm sensing a direction to this conversation. Please do continue."

"When the new intersect comes on line, is it Agent Walker's task to… eliminate me? To terminate me. Or whatever euphemism is popular in the spy world."

Beckman pursed her lips and closed her eyes for a moment. "Yes."

"I thought as much. It's what the file read. And she's never failed at an assassination. She's the best of the best. I suppose I should be flattered. So why the big speech about the future and how Agent Walker and I are so important. Ws it all about getting her close to me so she won't miss?" The last sentence was almost shouted. He was on a roll and getting really pissed.

"The file has been changed several times since the data was sent to you in that damned email. Major Casey was assigned to terminate you if required. But I seriously doubt it will ever come to that, Chuck. You see, you're the human intersect. You are unique in all the world. You have become an amazing young man and you deserve an equally amazing young woman by your side. Sarah Walker."

"Don't give me that crap about the human intersect. I'm just a mental file clerk. Sure, I've done some tinkering but it doesn't amount to much. A computer could accomplish the same thing if given the right program."

"Do you really think so, Chuck? Really?"

"Yes. I have no special abilities. Just a good memory and an ability to store data and retrieve it with the proper cues, nothing special."

Beckman smiled. She put a hand on Chuck's forearm, gently squeezing it as if to reassure him of something.

"If that's all you are, then why have we been having this conversation in idiomatic Farsi?"


	17. Chapter 17

Moah17

A/N: The first part of this chapter is mostly for the shippers out there who have 'PM'd me regarding the pace of the real story – so let's get this out of the way. I think I explain the Beckman metamorphosis subtly but you should get it unless you're looking for all the gratuitous sex to be found in the middle of this chapter. Also I've changed the summary after being advised it sucked. I appreciate that. It did and probably still does sucketh immensely.

_Farsi? Idiomatic Farsi?_ When the hell did Chuck have time to learn Farsi?

Sarah Walker had been lurking in the hallway outside Chuck's room, not eavesdropping but rather waiting for her chance to pounce on an unprepared and unsuspecting Chuck before he had a chance to marshal his defenses. She had planned to confront him with both her love for him, her desire, no her _need_ to be with him and finally put paid to all this crap about cover relationships.

But that was before she'd overheard Chuck and the General. Before she'd heard the General confirm Chuck's innermost and dreaded fear: she, Sarah Walker, had been tasked to seduce and, if required, terminate him. Tears welled up in her eyes. She watched her future with Chuck dissolve when she heard "…close to me so she won't miss?"

Anyone watching the slim figure of Sarah Walker from a distance would have thought she'd been punched in the stomach. She bent over, gasping for breath, and staggered along the wall to the vacant nurses' station. She'd never felt such emotion. She was physically ill. 'So this is what it feels like to be in love and lose the one you love forever?'

He'd never ever trust her again. So what if Casey was now the designated trigger, the damage was done. Her trust quotient with Chuck was now zero. Nothing she could possibly say would be able to undo the damage done. She knew Chuck Bartowski. Knew that his mindset would see her past actions as manipulation, seduction, foreplay, all steps in the CIA handler/asset handbook. She would ask for an immediate reassignment. She had no choice. She couldn't bear to be around him, see the contempt and even pity in his eyes. Now that he knew the truth about Sarah Walker, CIA Agent.

But it was Jennifer Burton she heard in her mind. 'Pathetic. Loser. Quitter. Going to ask for reassignment? Going back to that slimy slug Bryce? Going to fill the hole in your soul with what? Bryce is shallow, a straw man, nothing like our Chuck.'

'We had chance upon chance. We could have told him the truth before he found out on his own, from sterile "government sources". He handed us his heart time after time and we threw it back in his face.'

'Oh, we occasionally threw him a bone just to keep him interested, compliant, subservient. A nice little asset who offered _unconditional love_ in exchange for what? A 9mm in the back of the neck? A shellfish toxin cocktail?'

And the coup de grace: '_You_ never deserved someone like my Chuck. _You're no different than Dad_. You con people for a living. Manipulate them, trick them, use their human emotions to get what you want from them and then… _**you leave**_.'

Diane Beckman left a changed Chuck Bartowski behind. She'd seen resolve harden his facial features when she'd confirmed that Sarah Walker had indeed been initially tasked with his termination if the situation warranted it. He became angry. And loud. And argumentative.

He had absolutely no idea what he'd become and of how much he was capable. It wasn't until she'd remarked that they were speaking in idiomatic Farsi that he shut up.

Switching to English, the General continued.

"Chuck, Sarah Walker is in love with you. And she probably has been far longer than she'd care to admit. That's why Major Casey was tasked with your… removal… if it became necessary. However, considering the lengths you went to, the suicide attempt when you thought Fulcrum was going to take you, well, I think those orders will be permanently rescinded. You've proven to me, and to a lot of others, that you have what it takes, the commitment and the courage to do the right thing for the greater good."

General Beckman felt she was not really lying. None of those involved with protecting and assisting the Intersect would ever have to know that the order to eliminate the Intersect in the event of capture or compromise would always remain as a final option although the act itself would be the responsibility of parties unknown to any directly involved. And it was all for the greater good.

"Now, do the right thing again. Don't punish Agent Walker for having done her duty in the past, no matter how unpleasant it may seem to you in retrospect. You have the benefit of 20-20 hindsight. Put her actions into context. View her current actions in the _current context. _ She asked permission to pursue a real relationship with you. She risked her career, even her freedom, for the opportunity to love someone. You."

Chuck had not interrupted her since she switched to English. He nodded his head at points as if to say 'I am following you'.

"Life is too short to deny yourself something that only comes once in a lifetime. Don't let pride and anger get in the way of your happiness. Tomorrow might be too late."

"You'll be transferring this afternoon to Moab for rest and recovery. We'll update the intersect information when you feel able to handle the download. You'll complete your physical therapy there and back in Burbank. Your cover is secure, Chuck. Good luck. Remember what we've discussed. Don't wait. Life is too short and the spy world is very unforgiving."

"General?"

"Yes, Mr. Bartowski?"

"The operation to free the Embassy Hostages back in '79. You planned that. And you lost someone important to you. I think it's time to forgive your self. It was a blade strike in a sandstorm. Bad weather, not bad intel. Not bad planning. The satellites back in your day (a slight smile at that) were not nearly as good as ours are today. Weather was just as tricky and unforgiving then as it is now. Let it go, Diane. Forgive your self. I'll follow your advice, but only if you follow mine. Deal?"

She stared at the man before her. She'd always been impressed with his forthrightness, his earnestness. It reminded her of someone but she never gave it much thought until this very moment. She couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before, or consciously made the connection. Chuck Bartowski was the image of Captain Robert Ellsworth Owens, US Army Rangers. Killed in the desert that fateful night in Iran. Her Bobby. Was that why she tolerated his behavior? Overlooked so much? She didn't want to know.

With just the slightest suggestion of a smile, she said, "I'll take that under consideration, Mr. Bartowski, now I have to go."

And ran right into Sarah Walker who was waiting at the end of the hall, seemingly guarding the door to the General's conference room.

"Ma'am, a moment of your time, please?"

"Agent Walker, I do not want to hear what you are going to say. NO. You may not request reassignment. NO. I will not entertain your resignation. NO. I will not listen to any arguments you may make regarding your ineffectiveness at securing the person of the Intersect. What I _will_ do is ignore your apparent second thoughts and order, yes, order, you to confront Mr. Bartowski with the truth and end this painful and endless mating ritual you two find yourselves in. It is counterproductive, a waste of valuable time and" her voice rising to a parade ground volume, "an incredible pain in the ass!"

Sarah's jaw dropped. The General walked right past her into the conference room and picked up her briefcase and turned and looked at her.

"Sarah Walker, you are this close" holding two fingers apart about 2mm, "to losing the opportunity of a lifetime. I thought you had more guts than this. Go talk to him. Give him the opportunity to choose the right path. A lot has happened to him. A lot has happened because of him. He's wrestling with a new awareness. Help him. Don't abandon him to his own devices. Tell him the truth from your perspective. He already knows the official version. Tell him your truth. He deserves to know."

And the General sidestepped her and signaled the head of Praetorian Guard. "Let's get out of here. I have things to do. You have your orders. Keep me in the loop." And disappeared into the elevator.

Chuck had just pushed his handy dandy self-medicating device for about the 3rd time in as many minutes. Ten minutes ago a man posing as a licensed physician, probably a graduate of the Home Study Medical & Agricultural Correspondence School had just finished removing the chest tube and "all you'll feel is a little pinch" turned out to be one of the top 10 lies of the century right up there with "I'll respect you in the morning" and "I'm from the government and I'm here to help you." Either the damned thing had fused to his ribs or the doctor was a direct descendant of Mengele. The bastard actually smiled as he held up the dripping tube. "See, didn't hurt a bit."

The fucker was so lucky Chuck lacked the presence of mind to put a few caps in his ass with his trusty and newly shined .45 caliber pistol.

So it was a slightly sedated Chuck Bartowski who, eye closed and chillin' on a Demerol cocktail, didn't hear someone slip into his room and approach his bed. Suddenly he was attacked. His good arm was pinned against the mattress and any cry of protest or warning was smothered by… soft lips and a darting tongue.

Figuring that she now had his attention and a craving need for oxygen, she broke the kiss and placed her hand over his lips.

"Shhhh, I need to talk to you and I have to do it now, without interruption, or I'll never forgive myself. All you have to do is listen. Not respond. Not ask questions. Just listen. And keep your damned eye open so I know you aren't in la-la land courtesy of Demerol."

"This isn't easy for me. I'm not a good communicator on a personal level. I don't have any experience to fall back on other than my CIA training and I know that's hardly appropriate for this situation. It's the damned training that got me - us – you – us - into this mess in the first place. So nod your head if you agree to my terms."

A part of Chuck was still fully absorbed with that kiss. But since it involved a portion of his anatomy that did not concern itself with the listening process, he just nodded his head.

"OK. The thing is, I love you. I am _in love_ with you. I have been for some time now. Probably since before Christmas, no, before that, even. I didn't know what I was feeling. I've never been in love before. I'm not sure I've ever been in _like_ before. I didn't have any dates in high school since my Dad was constantly on the move and college was a grind overseen by my CIA handlers and trainers. No dates. No risk of compromise. I was an investment to them and they wanted to be sure they'd get their money's worth."

"Nod your head if you understand. I don't think I can say all this again. Ever. I suck at relationship stuff. I _told _you that back at the fountain."

Chuck nodded his head. He was curious to see if there were any blatant contradictions or if he could ferret out any of her subtle lies. Trust but verify. Some president said that. He was sure Casey would know.

"I figure you've already seen my assignments. My string of successes. I guess I was a natural. It was easy to worm my way past their defenses and into their comfort zones. I credit my time with my Dad for that. The CIA sure was surprised. And each success brought a more challenging assignment. It was like a drug. The travel, the excitement, seeing exotic places, challenging my self to surpass the previous mission. To be the best."

"I got teamed with Bryce early on. We gelled. We had similar likes and dislikes. We both perceived the job as the end of all things. We were committed to the job, not each other. Chuck, I never loved Bryce. He was my partner. Maybe too much of one. When I was tasked to be your handler it was because Bryce had gone rogue and they didn't trust me. How about that. My superiors planned to use this to evaluate my ability to get back my game. They knew that I knew it was a test. So I threw myself into the challenge. With me so far?"

Chuck nodded. So far, no blatant lies. No misdirection. Boy, she was good.

"The first time I felt I was failing at my task was that damned bomb and the kiss. Chuck, I honestly believed we were going to die. I wanted to go out in your arms with your taste still on my lips."

"Chuck, agents are trained to identify and subvert the effectiveness of Sodium Pentathol and other so-called 'Truth Serums.' We have to be able to beat an interrogator if drugs are used. So, I lied. I'm sorry. I know that you view that as a betrayal but I still wasn't sure what my feelings for you were. I'd never felt that way before. Never. And I'm pretty sure I blew it right there with you. So, I'm sorry. I put the job, my career ahead of my feelings. Another sacrifice for the greater good."

"Look, they're coming to take you to the ambulance for transport. I don't know if or when I'll get the courage to say this again so it's now or never. Chuck Bartowski, I want you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want a family. Kids, a dog, the white picket fence, the whole shooting match. If that's too much then I'll settle for what you'll give me for right now. You don't trust me. I don't blame you. I wouldn't trust me if I were you knowing what you know. But give me another chance. Give us another chance. Please."

"Can I speak now?" She nodded.

John Casey was accompanying the team who were going to move Chuck to the ambulance. He was just about to enter the room when he saw Sarah Walker lying on Chuck, staring at him. Listening carefully. He put his hand on the man pushing the gurney.

"Give them a couple of minutes. Won't kill us to leave a few minutes late." And he shamelessly eavesdropped.

"You're right I don't trust you. I don't trust Sarah Walker, Elena Yevtushenko, Eva Santori, Irena Petrovich, Janice Wannamaker, Olga Herskovitz. Sarah Walker and I are through, kaput. Finished.

Casey's eyes widened and his first thought was he'd need to find a new partner. Sarah Walker would not, could not, stay as handler to the Intersect. 'Bartowski, what the fuck are you doing? Are you nuts?'

.

.

Sarah tried to pull away but Chuck's one good arm held her around the waist. She had no leverage without putting her hand on his chest and even in her grief she had enough self-control to avoid it.

Chuck put his lips to her ear and whispered…

.

.

"but I think I trust _Jenny Burton_. So if Jenny Burton wants another chance I'll give her the chance. Even Mulder trusted his Scully. We'll discuss this in more comfortable surroundings at Moab. In the meantime, consider this, please, as a condition for any future relationship: I will not tolerate any further deception or misdirection from you. Period."

"And most importantly…"

.

.

.

.

"YOU have to tell Ellie about our new start. I don't think my body could stand the trauma. "

Jenny Burton hung a lip lock on her first-ever boyfriend until the orderlies came to prepare Chuck for transport, leaving a totally befuddled Major John Casey staring at a dazed but happy Chuck Bartowski. The Agent formerly known as Sarah Walker lit the room with her smile.

"Hey, Casey. I'll be down in the lobby making sure the others are ready. And I have to give Ellie the bad news."

Chuck looked at Casey and grinned. In perfect idiomatic Russian, complete with a Georgian accent, he said "Ivan Sergeiyevich Casey, how they hanging, Tovarich?"

23 and 24 had been tasked to drive the modified ambulance to the Moab facility. 23 was checking out the commo links and doing a quick inventory of the weapons and medical supplies. The boss was a stickler for attention to detail.

If anyone had been watching closely they would have noticed that 24 was jumpy. Money, a lot of money, did that to people.

Sarah and Ellie would be in the lead Suburban. Devon and Casey were riding with Chuck and the two Praetorian Guards. The remainder of the Praetorians were disbursed through out the remaining Suburbans.

Sarah and Ellie were walking back to the ambulance to make sure that Chuck was securely fastened. He'd have to forego any Demerol for this trip. Besides, the chest tube was out and it was time to begin weaning him off the good stuff. She and Ellie were talking about the upcoming nuptials – well, Ellie was talking, Sarah mostly just smiled widely and nodded. She was immensely happy. Happier than she'd been in a long time. Actually, Jenny Burton was happy but who was worried about that now.

24 hopped into the driver's seat. He turned and smiled at 23 who was about to remark that he was driving the first leg of the trip but stopped when a K-bar pierced his throat, shattering his hyoid bone and severing his spinal column just below the atlas. He didn't make a sound. Just died.

Devon was on his knees with his back turned to the driver making sure Chuck's gurney was securely fastened for the trip. John Case threw a sports bag into the ambulance and was pulling himself up into the open door of the ambulance using both hands, leaving a fully exposed chest. 24 placed 3 9mm rounds into the 'O' ring blasting Casey backwards to land on his back, arms outstretched 6 feet from the back of the ambulance. 24 grinned to himself. He loved silencers.

He then shot Dr. Devon Woodcombe in the back once figuring he was a civilian and one would be enough to incapacitate him. He'd finish him off later when he got the time. Right now he had to take care of the remainder of the Praetorians.

Ellie and Sarah had reached the end of the ambulance and had seen Casey's body on the roadway. She pushed Ellie to the side and drew her weapon. She was about turn and aim into the ambulance when each of the Suburbans exploded in a burst of sound and flame. She spun around and covered Ellie with her body. Poor Casey. Well, dead people don't feel any pain.

She pushed herself to her feet and ran up to the passenger side of the cab. One of the Praetorians was sitting upright, staring straight ahead. She saw the K-Bar. Treason!

Running up to the right front bumper she fired at the driver through the windshield. Shit! Bullet resistant glass! The General thought of everything. Except a traitor in her ranks.

She had to keep the ambulance from leaving. She fired the remainder of her magazine at the front tires. Armored. And probably run-flats, too.

24 started his engine, engaged the transmission and drove down the hospital driveway out to the main road. He had a schedule to keep and a very large deposit to his bank account waiting for him upon delivery of the goods. He had no idea who the guy was. None of the two-digits did. Only the single-digits had sufficient clearance. Well they were all dead now. His clients would just have to be satisfied with whomever it was he was driving. Guy must be heavily doped for the trip since he hadn't made a sound.

Ellie Bartowski was kneeling on the grass, arms crossed under her breast, rocking back and forth making a keening sound competing with the ululation of fire alarms from the hospital. Almost all the windows on the front side of the hospital had been shattered. The blasts had been that powerful. Sirens were wailing in the distance as fire and police vehicles rushed to the hospital in response to the reports of explosions.

One of the SUVs had landed upside down on top of one of the others about 10 feet from where Ellie was kneeling. All were engulfed in flames and Sarah could see the shriveling corpses of her fellow agents through the blown out windows. It wouldn't be long before ammunition starting cooking off. She had to get Ellie Bartowski to safety and call the General. And she had to do something with Casey's body.

She ran over to Ellie, kneeled down and yelled in her ear "Ellie, c'mon. Help me move Casey someplace out of the way. Please."

For a doctor, Ellie seemed to have succumbed to shock. "Dr. Bartowski, there's an injured man here who needs medical attention!"

Sarah stood and pulled Ellie to her feet. She seemed less dazed. "C'mon, help me with Casey. We can't let him burn."

They ran over to where Casey was sprawled. The heat from the burning SUV was incredible. Sarah bent down and hit Casey in the chest. Ellie looked at her like she had lost it. "Sarah, stop that. It wasn't Casey's fault. He couldn't stop the explosions." Sarah just stared at her and grabbed Casey under the arms.

"Dammit, Ellie. Help me. This sumbitch is heavier than he looks." Ellie took one arm and Sarah took the other. Together they pulled Casey over to the grass. Sarah knelt down and ripped his shirt open. She was right. He was wearing a vest. Good man. Hitting the concrete driveway probably knocked him cold. She saw 3 rounds where Casey's heart would be. You could almost cover the spread with a silver dollar. Damned good shot.

Ellie, he's just knocked out from hitting the concrete. See if you can help him regain consciousness. I have to call this in and get organized to follow Chuck and Devon.

At the mention of her fiancé's name, Ellie grew calm. Ah, the famous doctor-mode she'd heard Chuck go on about. "Sarah, move your ass. My brother and Devon are in the hands of a nutball. Get a move on. I'll handle Casey."

Sarah stood to begin her tasks when she realized she had no one left to communicate to. She hesitated then pulled out her cell and dialed General Beckman.

Beckman was finally relaxing. All the players were in their places. She looked forward to getting back to the hustle and bustle of Washington. She'd had enough of Fulton County to last a lifetime. Her phone rang.

"Beckman – secure."

"Walker – secure. Ma'am, all the Praetorians save one are dead. Treason, ma'am. The driver of the ambulance blew up the SUVs killing all your Guardsmen. The other Praetorian in the ambulance had been murdered. Major Casey is down with unknown injuries related to a vested shooting and fall. Dr. Bartowski is handling his care. Mr. Bartowski and Dr. Woodcombe are assumed to be alive but captives in the ambulance. The ambulance is heading north on Hwy…"

Diane Beckman listened with growing anger and concern. All her men down, slain by a traitor in the ranks. One agent alive but injured. One civilian and the Intersect prisoners of the traitor and en route to an unknown destination. And she was two damned hours away from DC and out of the loop. At least Sarah Walker was alive and uninjured.

"Agent Walker, I'm tasking you with locating the Intersect and executing a rescue operation with whatever assets you can conscript, suborn or create. You know the SOP for the Intersect. You must eliminate any possibility of the Intersect falling into enemy hands. You know what that means. Beckman out."

'I'm sorry Sarah. Chuck has become expendable.'


	18. Chapter 18

Moah18

A/N: Getcher hankies out ladies. I appreciate the reviews. Loose ends galore to tie up. Sorry for the mega-chapter but the S/O and I are feuding so I've locked myself in my office to avoid a final confrontation. I agree with Sarah Walker. Relationships are hard.

BTW, some of you have written that you'd like to see Sarah have a harder time of it. I kinda thought the revelation that she was just like Daddy, a con artist, was fairly brutal but accurate. I don't hate Sarah Walker, but I lurve Jenny Burton. So dere. Take dat.

"Agent Walker, I'm tasking you with locating the Intersect and executing a rescue operation with whatever assets you can conscript, suborn or create. You know the SOP for the Intersect. You must eliminate any possibility of the Intersect falling into enemy hands. You know what that means. Beckman out."

'I'm sorry Sarah. Chuck has become expendable.'

Fulton Country Memorial Hospital

Major John Casey was in and out of consciousness, raving about bugs and calling for Sarah Walker. Ellie Bartowski was concerned about possible skull fractures. The CT unit was down and she found herself suddenly thrust back to the dark ages of medicine. The electricity had been cut to avoid any possibility of fires or explosions caused by ruptured gas lines. A hospital was a tinderbox with its oxygen lines within the hospital itself and external storage tanks.

The whole hospital was being evacuated to facilities in other towns. Local nursing homes were taking in most of the non-surgical patients and those other patients not considered critical. It looked like Baghdad after a car bomb. A really _big_ car bomb. She was waiting for her place in the queue to evacuate John Casey to another hospital. He could have been a priority evac but Sarah had nixed that. "No one must know in the general pop that Casey's NSA."

Local law enforcement and fire units had responded within minutes. The explosions were heard and felt all over the small farming town. Ellie could still hear the ripping sequence of explosions in her mind. She didn't think she'd ever forget it.

The fire department had been forced back a safe distance from the burning hulks that used to be 6 Chevy Suburbans and 22 human beings. Ammunition from individual weapons and storage was "cooking off" randomly and since the dead in the wreckages were beyond help, it had been decided to abandon attempts to put out the fires. The only damage would be to the melting asphalt of the hospitals circular drive.

Casey's sudden pulling on her arm ended her wool gathering. She looked at him. He had one blown pupil, his eyes were bloodshot and he had bleeding from his left ear, whether that was from a ruptured eardrum or a symptom of a more serious condition was beyond her.

"Ellie, please. Get Sarah. Got bugs. Help Chuck and Devon. Get Sarah. Chuck has bugs," and then he lapsed back into unconsciousness. She didn't know where Sarah Walker was. She hadn't seen her since they had dragged Casey into the emergency room. She had run out of there within seconds after seeing that he was being taken care of.

On the road again

24 was elated. He'd done it. He'd eliminated the Praetorians, the NSA's elite tactical force. The fact that they'd been his teammates until an hour ago hardly mattered. What mattered was getting to the rendezvous point and delivering his passenger and taking possession of cash payment. The balance was in a numbered account in the Caymans. He needed money to lie low off the grid until he managed to figure out how to get out of the country and down to the Cayman Islands and get his money.

He was hitting nearly 70mph but reached back and flipped the latch on the armored door separating the crew cab from the medical portion of the modified ambulance. He slid it open into its recess behind the passenger seat. The guy on the gurney was unconscious as was the civilian doc he'd popped in the back. He might still be alive but not for long. He had no need for him. As soon as he entered the National Forest area he would be home free. No choppers to hound him, lead the authorities to him. No. The forest was his friend. All he had to do was get there.

It would be dark in four hours or so and he could dump the doc by the side of the road. If the guy weren't dead from a bullet, the elements would kill him. It was cold this high up in the mountains especially at night and there was still more snow to come. Winter had not released its grip on the north yet. Northern California was infamous for it's late spring blizzards.

Satisfied that he wasn't going to have any problems with his two passengers

FT Meade, Maryland – NSA Headquarters

General Diane Beckman had just left a briefing of the National Command Authority. She knew what she had to do. Looking at a map display, she consulted a database on her computer and called the base commander to assign him a mission.

Barker Air National Guard Base

"General Beckman, let me get this straight. You want me to send a flight of armed A10 Warthogs to intercept and stop an ambulance being driven by a rogue agent of the NSA with civilian hostages aboard? Define 'stop' for me please. I am recording this for security reasons."

"You mean you're covering your ass, don't you, Colonel Mitcham? Your flight is instructed to fire at the road in front of the ambulance in hopes of forcing it to stop. You will have armed choppers with Air Police on station in orbit around the attack site. If the ambulance stops, your orders are to land the helicopters and use your troops to take the rogue agent into custody and secure the hostages.

If your flight cannot stop the ambulance, they are authorized to use deadly force to destroy it before it enters the National Forest and/or before dark. Collateral damage is expected and acceptable. Those are your rules of engagement for this mission."

"Yes, General. Thank you for clarifying that. They'll be 'wheels up' in less than 10 minutes. It's only a 20-minute flight to the estimated target area. We'll report back when the mission is accomplished."

"NSA will be monitoring and recording all communications between your flight and your base. Beckman out."

"Christ, what a bitch." Colonel Mitcham called in his Air Group Commander and issued him his orders.

"Major Valenti, you have your orders. Do not fail. This op is being monitored by the NCA through the NSA. You must accomplish your mission. A lot of careers are going to be made or broken today" 'Those poor bastards in the ambulance. Collateral damage acceptable. Not if you're on the receiving end, it isn't.'

Ambulance

Chuck was accessing the Intersect. He just hoped this latest prototype was listed. He cued "ambulance" and got… nothing. Shit. Ok, he knew from his brief exposure to Casey and all things military that the syntax of descriptions was in hierarchical form. So he cued "military vehicles, emergency, ambulance, prototypes" and got… a cascade of images. He mentally set a queue and accessed the first image.

Nope. No tracks on this thing. It wasn't an armored personnel carrier. The second yielded a Hummer ambulance conversion. Nope. The third, fourth and fifth images were busts. The sixth had possibilities.

It was an older spec from Chrysler. From before they'd become Chrysler-Daimler and closed out this particular military contract. He accessed overall performance specs, armor (_armor?_), engine, transmission, fuel and finally accessories. He wondered if he would see a list of "amenities" like air conditioning, pin striping, sound system… 'Get back on track, Bartowski. You got no time for this crap.' Good Lord, he was channeling Casey!

Instead of sound system he found 'communications suite' and accessed the image.

He glanced over the written specs. He had no need of specifics. He needed an owner's manual. Fat chance. But still… making a metal note of the FSNs [Federal Stock Numbers, the government numbers everything] he closed out all the bright and muted images and set a search for Manual, Radio, Training and inserted the FSN from memory.

He got a single bright image and accessed it. Eureka! Illustrations. Cool beans. He raised himself up on the gurney and checked out his commo unit on the side deck of the ambulance. It was exactly the same model. Finally, he was getting lucky. He flicked a switch and saw the analog dials and meters light up and register. Power. Yes! He looked for a push-to-talk switch, found it and pushed it. It was spring-loaded and went back to 'off' when released. Well, that sucked. He needed to find a way to keep it open and broadcasting.

The engineers had designed the system so that on-board medics could have communications with medical professionals in friendly territory if medical needs required it. They figured a medic with wounded wouldn't be able to hold a mic and had designed an audio system that allowed the medics to utilize 'receive only' mode as a default. Chuck needed a 'transmit only' mode and it wasn't available. Shit.

He looked at the switch and figured out he needed a 'finger' to hold it down so it would transmit continuously, effectively becoming a 'bug' and enable Casey and Sarah to get cues Chuck would provide them. But what frequency? He racked his brain. Every one had a common frequency for emergencies. Like Channel 9 on the old CB radios. What was it called and what was the freq?

He accessed the intersect again. Child's play for him by now. He was really getting good at this.

The channel was called Guard and now he had a common freq.

He reset the transmitter to the Guard freq. Now he had to figure out where the hell they were. And how to create a finger to hold down the transmit switch. He needed to be able to fix their location and then get their rogue agent to wax eloquently about his plans, etc. Just like the movies.

He pushed himself up painfully into a near sitting position. Having only one functioning arm and leg was a real drag on his dexterity. He looked out the small rear window and all he saw on both sides of the road were trees. Big damned trees. No landmarks, just those damned trees. He could be anywhere in Northern California. He saw snow banks created by snow plows clearing the roads so he figured they were headed up into the mountains not toward the coast. He accessed the intersect and set his query for Roadmap, California, Northern, full visual and ran it.

Damn there were a lot of roads. Too many. Looking back out the window just in time to see a big rig and a passenger car pass the ambulance going the other way. The car was overtaking the 18-wheeler so that meant a 4-lane highway. He changed his criteria and reran the query.

The results were better, but not by much. He never realized that California had so many 4-lane highways. Without additional information, he had no way of refining his search. He needed more information More visual cues to ramp-up his query and refine his search parameters. He took a deep breath and pulled himself upright to a sitting position.

Someone stuck a red hot poker into his side. He'd torn the stitches sealing the chest tube incision. Tough shit. It had to be done. And he figured he'd either re-broken some partially healed ribs or tore some muscle. It really hurt to breath deeply. But he could see a lot more. Cars and trucks in the other two lanes. Fewer now than before. And he figured he had about 2 – 3 hours before it was too dark for aerial surveillance so he needed to act now.

He saw a road sign in the other lane indicating it was 2 miles to the High Sierra Wildlife Preserve. HA! He had a point for his map search!

Ok, he now knew where he was. About 20 miles south of a National Forest area. He knew that once they got into those trees his chances of being rescued cratered. And there were countless feeder roads the agent could take. Who knew? Maybe he had another vehicle stashed somewhere. It wasn't like this particular model of ambulance was a frequent sight on the highways. If he changed vehicles the game was over and Chuck was dead meat.

He had to get his location back to the agents who survived the blasts.

For the first time he let himself think about those horrible minutes when Casey was shot and Sarah Walker had blasted away at the ambulance. He figured Casey was dead but Sarah was alive. He didn't know about Ellie. He didn't know if she'd been in one of the blasted vehicles or not.

He didn't want to think of losing his sister. He'd already lost Casey and Devon. Devon's wound had quit bleeding so he figured he was dead. Dead people did not bleed. He knew that from the movies… he laughed at that. He was a character in a movie. That was the only explanation for his life. The Chuck Show, just like Truman.

Ok, his woolgathering had enabled his body to adjust to his new position. He was a bit dizzy but figured that was because this was the first time in 3 days he'd been in any position other than prone. Postural hypotension was the term, or may hypertension. Hell, he didn't know or care. Just some more trivia he'd absorbed while living with 2 doctors.

He needed his "finger". He couldn't reach any of the medical supplies. He'd thought about adhesive tape but couldn't reach any of the lockers in the overhead compartments. Shit. He was so close!

His side was bleeding again, a lot. The surgical dressing was affixed with adhesive tape. He ripped off the gause and pad but the tape was too soaked with blood to stick. Then he realized he had a dressing over his eye, his forehead and the entire left side of his face. Saved again. This was way cool.

He pushed the switch to 'transmit' and covered it with all the tape he could recover. He wasn't concerned with infection. He'd be dead long before the evil critters could gain a foothold. He cranked the volume up on the transmitter and realized if he was overheard talking, the game was over. Misdirection. He needed misdirection. What did the doomed hero always do when he was about to be killed by the villain? Got him to talk about his plans… cool beans. Sometimes he amazed himself.

"Hey, hey up there. What's going on? Hey? Need some help back here."

24 heard some muffled shouting from the ambulance module. Now what? He slid the door open and glanced back. His package was awake and talking up a storm.

"Shut up back there. I'm trying to drive. Just lay back and enjoy the ride. Think how lucky you are. If I didn't need you for my payday, you'd be on the floor like the doc there."

"Don't be so sure of yourself. You know Beckman's going to be pissed and come gunning for you. I'm just an expendable analyst. She's got a lot more of my kind but you took out her Praetorians, humiliated her, she's not going to let that slide."

24 just grinned. "Yeah, I'll bet she has problems filling those vacancies. Not many elites left to choose from… and so what if she's pissed. Once we hit the trees, we'll be free of satellite surveillance and my plan doesn't call for letting that evil bitch ruin my payday."

FT Meade, MD NSA Headquarters

An enlisted aide knocked at the General's door and entered without permission. During alert exercises or bonafide emergencies like this one, courtesy and protocols took a back door to expediency.

"Ma'am, we're monitoring a feed from Northern California. It on the Guard channel but it's a ground location. You need to listen to this. I think it's our missing asset."

She went over to the General's computer and entered a few keys and increased the volume. Relays had decreased signal strength and volume. But you could still hear and understand what was being said. The electronic monitoring network had been scanning millions of signals and had isolated on the words 'Beckman' and 'Praetorian'. Immediately electronic snoopers were listening and recording the conversations.

"took out her Praetorians, humiliated her, she's not going to let that slide." Beckman grinned. That Chuck Bartowski never ceased to amaze her. How the hell did he do it?

"Contact Agent Walker at Fulton County Memorial and tell her "Chuck's back in the game." Then contact Colonel Mitcham, the air group commander and have them monitor the transmissions. Thank you. Tell the analysts they have my compliments on a job well done. Have SigInt triangulate the transmission point and forward it to all involved stations."

Fulton County Memorial Hospital

The NSA had brought in a command post vehicle and placed it and its crew at Agent Walker's disposal. General Diane Beckman had been insistent on it. And she wanted it done yesterday. If not sooner.

Sarah got the call on her cell. It was simpler to communicate this way when commo was utilizing so many different methods. It got to her immediately and that was the important thing.

"Walker, secure."

"Sgt. McCaskill, Ft Meade, secure. Agent, the General says fire up your commo and listen in on the Guard channel. I quote "Chuck's back in the game." That is all. Ft Meade out."

"Agent Tyler, bring up Guard on your receiver. Our target is somehow transmitting over voice channels." Nothing amazed her anymore where her Chuck was concerned. Nothing.

Avenger Flight of 4 A10s

"Major Valenti, monitor Guard. Your target is transmitting. NSA is triangulating the signal and will have the location radioed to you. Good hunting!"

Ambulance

"I don't see what you hope to accomplish by kidnapping a junior analyst. Hell, I'm not even an agent. I just got banged up and Auntie Diane used her influence to get me preferential treatment. But I'll tell you, she's not going to pay a dime of ransom for me. Not a penny even. You're shit-out-of-luck, dude."

He hated to think what General Beckman was thinking. "Auntie Diane" was probably going to shit a brick over that one.

At least 20 people had the same exact thought: "_auntie Diane?"_. Sarah Walker began to laugh uncontrollably. Diane Beckman was planning on unthinkable things for her favorite nephew (in point of fact, her _only_ nephew. She was an only child), and Ellie Bartowski was wondering if Chuck knew something she didn't and if it meant another guest at the wedding.

24 was not amused. "Beckman had all her relatives eliminated or sent to deep detention when she assumed her throne. Nice try but no banana. Now shut up. I got to contact my customer. Make sure all is ready for the transfer."

24 might be a scum bag but he was no dummy. He'd seen the winds of change blowing to the East and so he'd made contact with someone who made contact with someone else who… until finally he received a bid from the Peoples Liberation Army's Department of Public Security and instructions to contact a telephone number for hand over instructions. He figured it would be a one-time number on a throw-away cell phone. And he was right.

Chuck listened as 24 dialed a number on his cell phone and put it on speaker. At his current rate of speed he didn't want to risk an accident.

He began speaking in Mandarin Chinese. Chuck isolated his language training program and hoped it wouldn't take too long to be able to understand Mandarin. Hell, he didn't need to be able to speak or read or write it, just understand it.

[in Mandarin Chinese] "Colonel Li, this is your delivery man. I have a package for you. Are you still at the address we discussed?" Colonel Wu Chang Li curled his lip in disgust. The stupid Americans didn't know that the first word of a Chinese name was the patronymic or family name. He'd just called him by his first name. Very disrespectful.

"This is Colonel Wu Chang Li and yes nothing has changed. We have your tip and a delivery receipt all ready for you. When do you estimate you'll be able to deliver our package? We are anxious to examine the contents, as you might well imagine."

"Barring unforeseen traffic, Colonel, before dark. Say, 2 hours. I'll see you then" and reached over to the cell phone cradle and hung up on the Colonel. [End Mandarin Chinese]

24 smiled. His 'tip' was $100,000, his getaway fund. The 'receipt' was the account number where the balance of his payment was deposited in his new name. Life was good.

Colonel Wu Chang Li was looking forward to killing this disrespectful capitalist running dog traitor. He expected impeccable manners from anyone he dealt with. Such disrespect was not tolerated.

FT Meade, Md NSA Headquarters

General Beckman was amazed at the lack of tradecraft displayed by the Chinese Colonel. Surely he understood that cell phone users had no expectation of privacy? The incompetent fool had not even used the simplest of encryption programs. Her analysts had printed out a translation of the conversation. This was proof that the Peoples Republic of China was involved at the highest levels. The opportunities this presented…

Ambulance

Chuck didn't catch all the conversation, just the final sentence or two. But it was enough. He had to act now if he was to survive. And he had Devon to think about. He'd seen the shallow breathing and knew his friend and future brother-in-law was still alive but he didn't know anything else. He had to get Devon out of the ambulance and into a hospital. He knew that, if nothing else. And he had to stop this traitor from delivering the intersect to the Chinese.

He pulled up the intersect and accessed military airbases in Northern California. The closest one was a California Air National Guard command with a squadron of A10s recently returned from Iraq. He accessed the A10 data and the distance from his estimated location to the base and did a quickie DRT problem. He divided the approximate distance from the base by the max speed of the A10 and voila!, he had the estimated flight time.

"Hey, you know all Beckman has to do is contact the California Air National Guard and a squadron of A10s will be all over us in less than 23 minutes. It's what I'd do if I were her. I'm really not her favorite nephew. I'm sure she has several more out there just waiting for the chance to call her 'Auntie Diane'; and this ambulance sticks out like a sore thumb on a 4-lane highway like this."

FT Meade, MD NSA Headquarters

It's exactly what I _did _do, Chuck but now you've given us an approximate location so those jets can kill you. And you knew exactly what you were doing. And no, I don't have any other 'nephews' waiting, just one who can access the intersect and work it like it should. No one else with your unique mind, mores the pity. He'd just given her a location and distance from the base. No doubt about it. Unique.

Sometimes she hated this job, worshipping at the sacrificial altar of the Greater Good. They had no appreciation of what was done to secure their liberty.

"Contact the Barton Air Base commander and get those A10s redirected. No change in orders. Beckman out."

Fulton County Memorial Hospital

Sarah Walker was in shock. First 'Auntie Diane'. That had been funny. But she quickly sobered up as she translated Chuck's comments into an operations order. He'd just ordered General Beckman to scramble A10s and intercept the ambulance. And he'd even given them the approximate distance and flight time. Did he have a death wish? Did she mean so little to him? The more she thought about it the more she was convinced that Agent Sarah Walker approved of his actions but that Jenny Burton was horrified.

Now she understood exactly why agents should not fall in love. Not with each other, not with their mark, not with an asset. Not fall in love. PERIOD. But it was too late for her. And now it looked like it was too late for Jenny Burton. She cursed Bryce for about the millionth time. She swore that the next time she saw him she'd cut off his manhood and watch him bleed out. Bryce had better pray nothing happened to Jenny's Chuck. Or Sarah Walker's either.

Ambulance

'Ok, now that I've given them enough clues to find us, I've got to figure out how to get Devon and I out of here in one piece before the A10s show up. And to do that I'll need some privacy.'

Right before the attendants had lifted Chuck up from his hospital bed to the gurney, Casey had tucked his .45 and two extra magazines into his sling. "Chuck, be careful. There's one up the spout and the pistol's cocked. You might not have time to do your stomach trick, so just be careful. The safety's on, of course, but you've managed to hurt yourself with less."

'Casey. He'd planned on accompanying Devon and Chuck as extra security. That worked out well.' Chuck thought sarcastically.

"Hey, Agent Dickhead, look at me" Chuck shouted. 24 twisted in his seat and snarled "who you calling 'Dickhead' and what the fuck do you…" and found himself staring down the barrel of Chuck's .45 Colt. Chuck was bent over and had his only functioning arm extended at a right angle to his twisted body. The pain was nearly unbearable.

"Surprise!" and fired 3 rounds into the crew compartment. His last round hit 24 in the back of the arm above the right elbow. He really wasn't trying to hit him. Just trying to get the asshole to close and lock the crew cab door. He knew he wouldn't be able to hit squat at that angle and had no hope at all of forcing him to surrender. All he'd have to do was stop, open up the driver's door and step out and Chuck was so screwed. So he opted for forcing him to close and lock the door. Chuck didn't want to be interrupted while he figured out how to get Devon out of the ambulance.

The shriek out of 24's mouth almost made Chuck drop his weapon. 24 twisted around and slammed the crew door shut and locked it. He couldn't use his weapon at all since it was holstered on his right side and his right arm was pretty much useless. The pain was fucking incredible and he almost lost control of the ambulance when he let go of the steering wheel and slammed the crew door shut. He'd fix that little shit when he got tp the damned Chinaman. He tore off his belt and made a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. Analyst my ass. An analyst did not use a .45 Colt. This was not going well at all.

"OK if anyone out there can here me, this is Agent Carmichael on Guard. I am currently on a 4-lane highway about 5 or 6 miles north of the High Sierra Wildlife Preserve. I've wounded the Praetorian traitor but can't facilitate surrender. All he has to do is stop and unass the vehicle and I'm screwed. Limited mobility so I can't pursue or anything. He plans on exchanging me for cash and probably a numbered account with a Colonel Wu Chang Li of the Peoples Liberation Army's Department of Public Security currently acting as Cultural attaché at their consulate in San Francisco".

"I've also got a civilian EMT named Woody something. He's been shot in the back. Looks like a broken scapula. Don't know about any other injuries. I don't see an exit wound. If I can get him conscious and get the traitor to slow down a bit I can push him out the ambulance rear doors. I'll wrap him in blankets to minimize any further injury. I'm sort of stuck here so I'll just wait for the A10s to slow him down enough to let me push him out. He's got a family and things to do. Take care of him."

"C'mon, Awesome, you have to help me out here. I can't do this alone. I'm only half a man right now, I sure could use your help."

Avenger Flight 4 – A10s

"Alright flight. This is Lead. Weapons hot. I say again, weapons hot. We're about 3 minutes out, come left to heading 220 and bring it down to Angels 5. No fancy stuff. Just like we practiced. I'll do the initial strafing run followed at 5 second intervals by 4, 2 and 3. Newbie, I want you to keep it tight, we want to halt the target intact before it enters the National Forest. We'll start our run on the approaches to the Curve Vista Bridge. "

Fulton Memorial Hospital

Sarah Walker lost it right after hearing "C'mon, Awesome, you have to help me out here. I can't do this alone. I'm only half a man right now, I sure could use your help." He was more of a man in his current condition than most of the men she'd ever known, including Bryce. John Casey would have been so proud of Chuck. Manning up.

The other agents in the van discretely looked away, or at each other. By unspoken assent, this would never leave the van. And the CIA stock just went through the roof with the NSA agents in the van. At least CIA had Carmichael. And Walker.

Ambulance

"God dammit, Awesome. Get up, get up, get up. I can't do this alone. Stand up, big guy. You've going to base jump from a moving vehicle. Something to tell the kiddies you and your girlfriend are going to have. C'MON!"

24 heard the commotion in the rear of the vehicle but figured there was nothing they could do. The door was armored so that asshole with the cannon could shoot all day and nothing would happen. Shit, it had already happened. His arm was killing him but at least the bleeding had slowed to a trickle.

"That's right, on your knees. Lean over the gurney and let me wrap these blankets around your head and shoulders. [Whispering] Keep quiet. The whole world is listening. We're broadcasting to the entire airborne world. So I'm Agent Carmichael and you're Woody. Don't mention Ellie at all. She's just your girl friend. You don't want to end up like me and go to a bunker or worse." [Normal voice] Right. Here's the plan, when he slows down because the A10s are all over him you'll have to open the doors and jump out. Should be a piece of cake."

Devon looked at Chuck through his swath of blankets. "You got to be shitting me, right?" FT Meade, MD NSA Headquarters

General Beckman looked out at the operations room. Several of the female staff were openly weeping. Sighing, she got up and entered the room.

"If any of you feel you cannot continue, please leave your stations and depart. Nothing will be said, no record will be made. This is a horrible situation and your reactions are normal."

Four women logged off their stations and departed. General Beckman made a mental note of the identity of each one. Tomorrow they would be transferred to less-sensitive positions and their personnel files marked "Emotionally Unstable", effectively ending their careers at NSA. She approached the one remaining woman.

"Can you continue?" "Yes, ma'am. I apologize ma'am. I, that is we, have a mission to execute. This mission is critical and must not be allowed to fail. Sorry, ma'am."

Diane Beckman made a mental note about this enlisted woman. Tomorrow she would be surprised and hopefully delighted to be informed that she'd been commissioned in the US Army and been selected for Agent Training.

Avenger Flight 4- A10s

"Lead is in hot. Follow in 5 second intervals. Do not strike the ambulance. We want to try and stop it, not destroy it…. Guns Guns Guns… I'm off!" His strafing run had dug huge divots in the roadway immediately in front of the charging ambulance. Like a shot across the bow of a warship. Only this was an unarmed ambulance with a traitor at the wheel and innocent civilians in the rear.

"4 is in… Guns Guns Guns… I'm off!"

And it continued until all the elements of Avenger Flight had fired their 30mm cannon, pocking the road surface and causing the ambulance to swerve wildly but not slow down.

"Shit. OK, hold orbit on me at 3 grand while I check with higher and get permission for the missiles. Switching channels."

"Base this is Avenger lead. Negative on stopping the ambulance. He didn't even slow down. Request permission to engage and destroy the target with on-board ordinance."

"Avenger lead, base. Wait one." So, he's kicking it upstairs too. I figured no local authorization on killing US citizens. WAY the hell above my pay grade."

FT Meade, MD NSA Headquarters

"Beckman, secure. You are authorized to use any and all on-board ordinance to stop or destroy the ambulance. Collateral damage expected. Your ass is covered, Colonel." The last sentence was said with a palpable degree of disgust.

Avenger Flight 4-A10s

"Flight, lead. Listen up. Command authority has been given to use remaining on-board ordinance to stop and/or destroy the ambulance. It must not reach the end of the Curve Vista Bridge. I'll go in first, line up in trail on my 6, 1000 meter intervals, hard deck is 1000 feet. Abort your run if any, repeat any sign of vehicle stopping is observed or if vehicle sustains damage and is unable to continue. We'd like to get our people out of there alive, if possible. Come right to 300 and commence execution. 4, remember the damned hard deck. Bomb frags will ruin your whole day. Lead is rolling in…"

Ambulance

24 was weaving and varying speeds in an attempt to throw off the A10s. He had vivid memories of the Highway of Death coming north out of Kuwait. Saddam's crispy critter caravan. He had no intention of emulating Iraqis today. The strafing run had startled him and he'd almost lost control of the ambulance when the first 30mm shells had impacted on the road surface. He'd done a little better on the following runs but knew they'd switch to hard ordinance for the next runs. But he had a plan…

"Dev-er-Woody, this guy's not slowing down. I want you to sit on the floor and dangle your feet out the door and when I give you the signal, RUN out the fucking door. Maybe it will reduce your road rash."

"And please, find Jenny Burton for me. Tell her I remember exactly what she said to me. Tell her… Jenny Burton, I want you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want a family. Kids, a dog, the white picket fence, the whole shooting match. If that's too much then I'll settle for what you'll give me for right now. Remember that or I'll come back and haunt you. I love you bro…on 3… 1… 2…" and used his good leg to shove Dr. Devon Woodcombe, MD out the back of the ambulance.

**Fulton County Memorial Hospital – Command Van**

"NO!" Screamed Jenny Burton silently. Sarah Walker simply stared at the speaker in dismay and disbelief. He'd repeated, word for word, what she'd said to him in his room. Word. For. Fucking. Word.

No tears. Pride, unbearable anguish and loss, but not one tear. She would cry in private. She would not sully this moment with tears. Later and probably forever.

**Ambulance**

"Hell, Dev, the anticipation would have been the worst of it" and he laughed one last time as he looked up out the open doors and saw an A10 screaming down at the ambulance. He could almost make out the pilot's silhouette and could definitely make out the bombs hanging from the hard points on the wings.

"Oh, shit" said Chuck Bartowski.

"Oh, shit," said Avenger Lead. "Ahorting run. Looks like some guy strapped to a gurney just pushed a guy wrapped up in blankets out the back of the ambulance. Lead, changing freqs. Hold orbit." He checked his kneeboard notes and thumbed the frequency selector dial until he had the rescue choppers' frequency.

"Avenger Lead to Rescue Lead, do you copy?"

"Lima Charlie 5 by 5, we've been monitoring your freq. ETA 4 minutes. We'll approach along the bridge decking and land as close to the survivor as possible. Lead will land and pick up the survivor and rejoin orbit. Over"

"Avenger Lead, roger your last, leaving this push." And thumbed back to his flight's freq in time to hear "4 in hot, Fox 2".

"4 this is lead. Abort, abort. Return to orbit. That's an order." Damned newbies, hotdogs all of them. Got their fangs out and their heads up their asses. He'd clip that puppy's wings once they RTB'd.

24 saw the A10 launch a missile and swerved the ambulance from lane to lane hoping to break lock. It worked… almost.

Chuck Bartowski looked up and saw his end coming, a dark spot with a incredibly bright corona of burning gases. Closer and closer. The ambulance was swerving from lane to lane hoping to spoof the missile but in his heart of hearts, Chuck Bartowski knew it was useless. Well, it looked like he'd get his bright warm light after all…


	19. Chapter 19

Moah19

_A/N: Coming near the end. Pieces falling into place and things falling apart. I couldn't find a comfortable place to end this chapter so I just quit writing. Real life continues to abuse me so you'll have the final [perhaps] chapter up by Thursday. SWMNBN has fled the battlefield and is seeking the sanctuary of her ancestoral home and hearth. Perhaps that's why I've turned against the bitch goddess, Sarah Walker. But, hey, there's still another chapter or 2 or 3 or 4. Maybe even a sequel._

_If any of you are curious as to what a debris shelter looks like, google it._

_The Charrah crowd will probably prefer my new nom de plume 'Armor-Plated Rat' for what I'm going to thoroughly enjoy doing the your Agent Sarah Walker in future chapters._

**Previously**

Chuck Bartowski looked up and saw his end coming, a dark spot with an incredibly bright corona of burning gases. Closer and closer. The ambulance was swerving from lane to lane hoping to spoof the missile but in his heart of hearts, Chuck Bartowski knew it was useless. Well, it looked like he'd get his bright warm light after all…

**Rescue Flight – Medevac Helicopter**

The pilot of the Huey slick brought his bird down within a few yards of the blanket-wrapped figure lying motionless on the bridge decking. Prop-wash from the rotors whirled around the figure who was weakly struggling to free himself from his cocoon. Two medics with a Stokes stretcher leaped from the chopper when the skids were still inches from the ground. Bent over at the waist, each carrying an end of the Stokes, they reached the struggling figure in seconds. Wasting no time on pleasantries, the paramedics efficiently lifted the man and placed him in the Stokes. Running back to the chopper, still bent at the waist to prevent a really bad hair day from a rotor strike, they placed their charge on the floor of the chopper. The crew chief motioned the pilot to take off with a lifting-hands motion. The entire operation had taken less than 60 seconds. Dr. Devon Woodcombe M.D. would be in an operating room within 30 minutes.

An A10 Warthog shrieked down after the speeding ambulance following its missile and target, passing over the medevac chopper at an altitude of less than 200 feet, the jet wash almost destroying the delicate balance maintained by any rotary aircraft. The road had narrowed to two lanes at the end of the Curve View Bridge and the ambulance was desperately swerving and jinking, trying to throw the missile of course.

**Ambulance**

The Hellfire is a "Fire and Forget" weapon. The attacking pilot "paints" the target using optical sighting or laser painting and fires the weapon. The weapon travels down the designated flight path to the target, regardless of the actions of the aircraft. A vast improvement in pilot survivability. But not this time.

#4 of the 4-plane element had fired a Hellfire at the ambulance using a laser designator to "paint" the target. He never heard the abort command repeated by his flight leader. From 1000 feet at a 30-degree angle, the image of the missile tracking the target was mesmerizing.

The pilot watched, entranced, as the missile, approaching from the rear of the ambulance reacted to a sudden swerve by the driver but was going too fast and was too close to react to the change. Consequently, the missile hit along the roofline of the ambulance, directly above the passenger seat instead of the more spectacular shot of actually flying into the open doors at the rear of the ambulance as he'd planned.

The missile performed as designed and immediately fragmented into numerous pieces of shrapnel super-heated by the conversion of a mil-spec warhead to explosive energy. The entire front cab of the ambulance was shredded and exploded into a mass of metal shards.

The fuel tanks housed in the walls of the medical module reacted to the explosion and a series of blowout panels vented the flaming fuel out and away from the vehicle remains. Still traveling at over 70 mph, the hurtling wreckage of the ambulance left a trail of burning fuel outlining its path in the twilight of the darkening forest.

The A10 pilot reacted far too slowly. Target fixation. He had followed his missile to the target and at 400mph and 400 feet realized his error and pulled back on the stick and attempted to gain altitude. The aircraft pancaked where the bridge met the roadway into the woods. The explosion of fuel and munitions effectively shut down the bridge to any traffic from either direction for the foreseeable future. A 30-foot section the width of the road was simply gone.

**Avenger Flight 3 – A10s**

"Base, Avenger lead. Be advised an air-to-surface missile has destroyed the target. It is too dark to confirm any survivors. Target is in flames."

"The medevac has recovered the hostage from the roadway and is en route to a civilian medical facility."

"Air Police helicopters are RTB. The bridge is impassable and the approaches to the bridge from the north are burning uncontrollably rendering any landing impossible at this time."

**Fulton County Memorial – command post van**

No one in the van said a word. It was over. All that remained was to await the coming of daylight and then go in and recover the remains of Agent Carmichael and the turncoat Praetorian.

No one said a word to Agent Sarah Walker. No one knew what to say.

And it didn't matter. Sarah Walker had left the van after hearing "…the target has been destroyed…"

Fulton County Memorial – Triage & Evac Station

John Casey had been in and out of consciousness since the explosions. He'd been lucid and adamant but Ellie Bartowski thought he'd sustained a severe head trauma since he was shouting for Sarah Walker and about Chuck having bugs. She couldn't get him scheduled for evac since there were so many others and few places to transfer them.

Sarah Walker walked up to Ellie Bartowski. 'This is the classic "good news – bad news" situation' she thought.

"Ellie, Devon's been rescued by the Air Force and is on his way to a hospital. No word on his injuries. I'm sure the General will keep you apprised. She has your cell number, of course. She's nothing if not efficient at those kinds of things. You know, the things that don't matter but look good on paper."

Ellie's joy at the news was dampened by the look on Sarah's face. Her delivery had been almost monotone, disconnected.

"Ok, Sarah, what's the bad news? You look like shit. Is…is it, is it Chuck?"

"Your brother managed to push Devon out of the ambulance. The Praetorian traitor had shot Devon in the back after he shot Casey. Your brother wrapped him in blankets and shoved him out the back of the ambulance right before it was struck by a missile… that destroyed the ambulance. I am sorry for your loss." She sat down beside John Casey and held his hand.

"Oh my God, Sarah! Chuck's dead? Oh my God oh my God…but are they sure? Why aren't you going up there to confirm it? What's wrong with you? God damn it, Sarah Walker, talk to me!"

There were tears in Ellie's eyes but she couldn't tell if they were from anger or grief.

John Casey pulled himself out of a near unconscious state. His partner said the intersect was dead? Couldn't be. He dug out his cell from his vest pocket. Nope. He's still here. Blinking up a storm on this high tech GPS thingy. Oh, shit, but he had a headache. And it hurt to breathe. Ok, John, just man up and get it done.

"Chuck has bugs, Sarah, he's not dead. He's got bugs. Look, bugs, Sarah. Please just look…"

"Casey, please not now. Please, just give us a couple of minutes. We'll talk to you in just a few…" but she never finished.

John Casey sat up, almost puked in his own lap, and roared "YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME NOW, YOU BAWLING BUNCH OF SPLIT TAILS!!"

Ellie just stared at him in shock. She'd never heard John Casey in his natural state: pissed off. Sarah just glanced at him and looked at the floor. She didn't care what he had to say. She didn't care about a damned thing. Not any more. There was no place in the make up of an Agent for "caring". It was a weakness.

"Agent Walker. Look at me. Look. At. Me." John Casey rarely used command voice. But when he did, it was extremely effective.

"Agent Walker. Listen up and pay attention. Eye contact, Agent. Chuck. Is. Not. Dead. I will not repeat myself. I have him bugged. One in each of his casts. They're GPS bugs."

"Thank you for telling me that. I will convey that information to the recovery team in the morning. I'm sure it will be of great assistance to them. I am pleased they survived the blast and fire. Good equipment is hard to come by. We should write up a …" The sound of Casey's open hand striking Sarah Walker's cheek resounded. Ellie swore she heard at least one echo. No, it was two. She wasn't sure. Just shocked.

"Now, listen to me and don't speak at all until I'm finished. These are not standard issue CIA GPS locator beacons. The NSA does not like to share. I put a pair of specially designed beacons on our boy. One in his arm cast, against the skin on the inside of the elbow and the other against his femoral artery under his leg cast. They use the body's heat to generate the power to the beacons. The ortho people were very cooperative and kept him anaesthetized for the few extra seconds it took me to emplace them.

"As long as the body temperature is between 90 and 105F, they work. They're also tell-tales. If the subject dies, they quit within seconds. Simple, effective, AND IN PLACE ON YOUR GOD DAMNED BOYFRIEND. NOT HIS CORPSE. HIS LIVE NERD BODY. NOW QUITCHERBITCHEN AND MOANING AND LETS RESCUE THE NERD." His head was really throbbing, and he was going to…

'Jesus,' thought Casey, 'I'm gonna puke'. And he did. All over a shocked Agent Sarah Walker's boots.

Deputy Sheriff Marcus Brunner stood in the door and stared at the trio. One puking, one looking shocked and the other one… been crying, not a good omen.

He cleared his throat, loudly, "I see I found the secret agent meeting room. Is that an initiation rite? If so, I do not want to join." Uh oh, I guess no one's in the mood tonight.

"Here's the thing. I heard from reliable sources that the young fellow I helped out the other day at an accident is in some trouble. I owe the NSA so I figure I can help. I got a swat team of locals, all fitted out and ready to rumble and go find our boy, Chuck. You guys want to come along? You know most of us are Native Americans, what you pale faces call "Indians", and you know from the movies that we can see in the dark so being as it's night won't be a problem". With one sentence he destroyed all the myths and sacred cows any of the 4 of them might have had. And put them all at ease with him. Casey was impressed.

"OK, get geared up and meet me downstairs in front of the building in 30 minutes. Dress warm. It's fixing to snow up there and the horses don't like being in the trailers long. Makes them skittish. You _can ride, _can't you?"

Walker looked at Casey then at Ellie. "Casey can't come. He's concussed, probably a bad one. He needs to stay here. I need someone to watch over him and keep him near the comms. Can you do that? I need to go bring your brother home to you."

"Yes, Agent Walker, I can do that." Two could play the name game. She noticed how Sarah avoided using her brother's name. What game was she playing now?

My God, she was going to do it again. Deny her feelings and go back to being the perfect 'Cover Girlfriend'. Just to protect _herself, _not Chuck. She didn't want to risk being hurt. So she was going to protect herself and break her brother's heart, all in one fell swoop. It would be kinder if she just let Chuck die out there. At least he'd have the temporary illusion of being loved, even for a little while.

She was a bitch. And a coward. All that talk about sacrificing for the greater good. Bullshit. Self-serving bullshit.

"Casey, I'm going with Marcus. You're in no shape to be riding a horse in the wilds, at night. Stay here and coordinate any support we might need. I trust you to secure the home base until I have the asset in protective custody."

John Casey sighed. "He has a name, Agent Walker. You might remember it if you weren't so afraid of feeling anything. Life is full of sharp edges. Live with it."

Sarah turned her back on John Casey and walked toward the door. Brunner was waiting and she had to find cold weather gear and…

"You turn your back on the kid and try going back to the way things were in the early days after all you've put him through and I guarantee you'll have a new assignment within 10 minutes of my phone call to Beckman. And it won't be in the field either. The field is no place for a coward. No partner will ever trust you again. You won't deserve it." Then he delivered his parting shot: "There might not be a Marcus Brunner around the next time, y'know?"

**High Sierra National Forest**

He'd have to write a nice thank you letter to the engineers at Chrysler. They should rename this model the Timex…. Takes a lickin' and still keeps tickin'. Too bad he couldn't say the same thing for himself. The roof of the ambulance was a blend of layers of honeycombed armor and Kevlar. Pretty strong stuff. But not strong enough to totally negate the effects of a Hellfire anti-tank missile. If that's what it was.

Well, his driver was toast, literally. A crispy critter. If they asked him where he was, he'd tell them that's him over there, and over there, and over… well, he figured they'd get the point.

As for himself, he was still in one piece with a few additions. He now sported a peppering of fine bits of carbonized Kevlar and whatever the armored door was made of. He'd never make it through a TSA checkpoint unmolested again. He hated when the blood dried and his clothes stuck to his skin. Hurt like a bitch to remove them. He had no idea what his back looked like except it felt like someone had run a cheese grater over it, carefully removing all his skin. Yech.

'Time to quit feeling sorry for yourself, Chuck, and get your ass and assorted parts in gear. You know the Chinese are coming. They want their package, especially since they no longer had to pay the delivery fees and tip the driver. How very convenient for them. And thanks to the US Air Force they now had a nifty beacon, a huge pyre of A10 and assorted goodies blazing in the night. And the smaller fires pointing like a fire arrow at the wreck of the ambulance, that was a nice touch.'

He was lying on his side on what used to be the overhead compartments of the ambulance. His waist strap still held him to the gurney. He figured he'd grab whatever blankets and emergency equipment he could find and put some distance between him and the wreckage. He didn't plan on being a guest of the People's Republic. He liked Chinese food but couldn't see a steady diet of it.

He popped the safety catch and rolled off the gurney onto the floor, er, wall. Didn't much matter unless you were a purist. And he wasn't. He couldn't find a flashlight in this mess. All the power was out, cut by the system's computer once the blowout panels dumped the fuel.

He found a clump of blankets that had been ejected from overhead storage. Good. Now if he could only find some shoes and a decent parka and maybe some gloves…

What he did find was Casey's duffel bag that he'd thrown in just before the asshole traitor had blown him away. It wasn't totally dark yet so he quickly inventoried his treasures.

God bless John Casey. He now had an MP-5 with a flashlight mounted under the barrel, enough mags to overthrow a small country, extra mags for his .45 and 3 bags of loose rounds to refill expended magazines. Was Casey expecting a revolution? Or planning on starting one? Machts Nichts. He appreciated the thought.

He dug around and pulled out a bottle of water that he drained in one long pull and a… Claymore and clacker. And a utility bag of grenades. C4 plastic explosive but no detonators. A cigar lighter. Ah, Casey did love the occasional cigar. And the personal stuff from his car. The cops must have given it to him.

He didn't even remember what was in it. Cool beans. His spare cell phone. He turned it on… 3 bars but a weak battery. No sweat. He'd save it for the morning. Didn't expect anyone from his team to come calling. Casey was dead and Sarah was probably watching out for Ellie and Devon.

He put them out of his mind. He had bigger problems than worrying about things he couldn't influence. He needed to get away from the wreck and find a place to hole up until the cavalry came in the morning. Someplace defensible… and warm. He wasn't exactly dressed for anything other than a hospital stay. Just a hospital gown and scrub pants – minus one leg. A day trip to Moab my ass. . He detached the flashlight from below the barrel of the MP-5 and started looking through the mess for anything else he might need to survive. It felt like snow was in the air. And it was getting colder.

**40 miles north – High Sierra National Forest**

His technician had been monitoring the American rescue channel called "Guard". Hmmm, it seems his delivery was tied up in traffic. Perhaps he should meet them en route and take delivery of the package early. Colonel Wu did not believe in luck, he believed that luck was the result of preparation meeting opportunity.

He knew the American intelligence agencies had conveniently closed the main highway leading into the National Forest from the north. There was no better way to have deniability than to eliminate the possibility of witnesses. Still, Colonel Wu had mapped out several escape routes from his current position. He had no intention of being a guest at some CIA maximum-security facility. His government would deny he even existed if he was captured

Calling his team leaders together he gave orders to depart. First the motorcycles acting as cavalry screen and then the main body of his force following 4 - 5 miles behind them. They would locate and secure his package without anyone knowing they'd been there. There were extraction points distributed throughout the High Sierra National Forest and he had only to signal his helicopters and identify the point. Every thing was in order. It was going to snow and time was of the essence. It was now full dark and they would need every hour of darkness to accomplish their mission.

**High Sierra National Forest – Wreckage site**

Chuck cursed the fates for about the 1000th time. He hadn't found much in the wreckage that he could use. He added a first aid kit to his bag, some Demerol injectors and a plastic squeeze bottle of alcohol. But nothing to make his movement to a suitable location easy. He thought about using the gurney as a travois but realized he would leave a really noticeable trail plus he couldn't pull it or push it. One arm, one leg. Not cool.

He accessed a topographical map of the national forest. His wild ride finally stopped about a mile north of the bridge. Apparently the corpse of the driver had charred in place and the ambulance was luckily on a relatively straight stretch of road. It ended up in a drainage ditch but who was complaining. It could just have easily ploughed into a redwood going 70mph.

The terrain along the gorge was too much for Chuck. He wouldn't be able to crawl a mile. Not in his condition dragging all this crap along. Besides, he needed to go deeper into the forest, not stay to the road. He spotted a couple of trees about 60 yards into the thicket that would fill the bill. One fallen tree lying at an angle to another forming a crude frame for a debris shelter. It wasn't much but it would at least keep the wind from stealing his body heat.

Sixty yards is 180 feet, 2,160 inches. It took the better part of 30 minutes to pull his sorry ass and his new possessions that far. The fallen tree was better than he'd hoped for. About 3 feet in diameter it would provide a windshield for the debris shelter. Also a fine defensive position. As well as shielding his location from anyone on the road.

He threw the bag over the tree and hoisted himself up and over the trunk. In his mind, he was already designing and assembling his shelter. It wouldn't have to be the model of engineering design. It just needed to function. To keep him alive until morning. Exposure would kill him as easily as a bullet. And it was starting to snow. Good. It would cover his drag-ass path from the road, he hoped.

An hour later he had the basic skeleton in place. The ridgepole pine still had its crown of limbs and boughs. It made covering the remainder a lot easier. He used the knife he found in Casey's bag. It was now dull but it had served its function. He'd wrapped himself up as best he could after sliding into the shelter. It was like two-sided lien-to, 3 feet high and sloping down to the ground about where his feet would be if he stretched out.. It was covered with whatever he could scrape together, leaves, moss, boughs, pine needles, anything. It didn't look manmade that was for damned sure and that was fine. More misdirection.

He thought about which direction the enemy would probably come from. If they saw his trail they would follow it. That's why he put the claymore (interesting, the label on the convex side said 'front toward enemy'. He almost crapped when he found that he'd been throwing around a claymore with a live blasting cap in the firing hole. He put the claymore on the roadside of the tree and covered it with leaves. He hooked up the clacker and pulled the firing wires back on his side. At least he'd surprise the little bastards.

He loaded the MP-5 and checked his .45 pistol, wrapped himself up and settled down to shivering in earnest. He wondered about the C4 for about the 10th time. Why the C4 and no blasting caps or primacord? Made no sense. He looked up the explosive characteristics on the intersect and found that C4 burned hot and fast when lit with a match. It did not explode when burned. And Casey had a cigar lighter!

He cleared all the leaves and crap from a circle at the entrance to his shelter. He pinched off a piece about as big as a grape and lit it. It gave off a lot of light (not good), heat (very good) but a cloud of white smoke (very not good). The light he could block but not the smoke. Oh, well.

He was almost asleep and shivering uncontrollably when he heard the motorcycles coming slowly but loudly down the road. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings. The enemy was at his gates. Oh shit of dear.

**The Curve View Bridge**

It was petty obvious that no one was crossing the bridge anytime soon. They had seen the red glow of the fires illuminating the accumulating snow clouds from 5 miles south. They had no preparation for what they would find.

One of the deputies walked carefully to the edge of severed road deck. "Marcus, the Governator is not going to be pleased by this at all. This bridge is one of his wife's pet projects in the 7 Wonders of Northern California tourist brochure. She is not going to be a happy camper. Wonder who's going to pay to fix it?"

Agent Sarah Walker was frustrated. What should have been a straight 'go in, get out' was taking too long. She did not let her mind dwell on Ch…the asset. She had to focus on the mission at hand. She turned to Marcus Brunner.

"Marcus, what's the plan? How long to get down there" pointing down to the base of the gorge "and back up there?" to the edge of the cliffs forming the northern abutment of the bridge. Thirty feet separated her from the asset and her mission. Thirty damned feet.

The wind was picking up, whipping down the gorge. Even in her winter gear she shivered. She couldn't remember what Ch…the asset was wearing when she last saw him. A hospital gown, scrubs? She couldn't ('No, Agent Walker, you simply _won't_' said a small voice in her head) remember what Chu… he was wearing.

"Well, Agent, we'll double back down the highway about 5 miles, take a feeder that parallels the south rim east about another 5 miles to another bridge and cross there. We should be right over there" he gestured to the roadway with its wreckage and small fires "in about an 30 minutes. So let's get a move on. It probably pretty damned cold in a backless hospital gown out there, even if he's near one of the debris fires. Pretty damned cold, indeed."

They were just about to get in their vehicles when they heard the "BOOM BOOM BOOM…BOOM BOOM… BOOM" of a large caliber pistol answered by the _BRRRRRAPPPP _of two weapons firing full auto not more than a few hundred yards from their position. Someone had ambushed someone else, no, at least _two _someone else's judging by the rate of return fire. Two very surprised and angry someones.

'Oh, Chu…' thought Agent Sarah Walker before cutting off the thought. She needed to focus on that damned 30 foot chasm. Had to get across it somehow. _'Yes, Sarah Walker, our Chuck is over there fighting for his life. For our lives together. Are you going to rescue the ASSET or Chuck?'_

"Marcus, you got any rope in that SAR van of yours? Any climbing gear?"

**Fortress Bartowski**

He wasn't certain but he thought he'd hit one of the Chinese agents who were following his path from the ambulance to his hide. They'd approached his position openly, making no attempt to seek cover. Walking side-by-side, looking at the trail of debris and yeah, blood, from his many new oozing wounds and that damned hole in his side. How they could see anything in this light was beyond him. Fortunately for him they'd been nicely silhouetted against the flickering fires of the ambulance and fuel fires.

He'd decided against using the MP-5 figuring he'd need it when the inevitable charge came. Besides, he'd never fired _anything _on full auto and he'd probably punch holes in the sky. 'Morgan, those hours playing Call of Duty finally bore fruit' he thought.

He supported the muzzle on his tree wall and aimed as best he could one-handed. He fired three rounds at the agent on the left and three at the one on the right. He knew he'd missed his first shots, he hadn't anticipated the recoil, but he knew he'd hit his second target, at least twice. Someone was screaming like a mashed duck out there. Good. Suffer.

But nothing he'd experienced had prepared him for the volume of return fire his enemies responded with. He'd never been the target of automatic weapons fire before. He _loved this tree…_

**Killing Zone**

Agent Kai Li Feng of the Department of Peoples Security was very angry. At himself for assuming they were looking for a victim not a hunter and at his comrade who had been unprofessional enough to be wounded and was _still_ shrieking like a woman in labor. How he could even aim his weapon while screaming was beyond his understanding. He had sprayed a full magazine in the general direction of their enemy without regard to actually having a target.

Kai had been much more professional. _His_ magazine had been expended against the thick fallen tree this Yankee hunter was positioned behind. Much more professional.

He knew from his training in the Peoples Liberation Army that he should charge a prepared ambush and seek to overrun it by overwhelming fire superiority. The cadre did not assume two agents against one enemy in a prepared position. He would wait for his comrades to reinforce him and then they would overwhelm and capture the prize.

But for now, he and his womanly comrade would simply fix the enemy in his position with random fire. Until his comrades arrived. And he fired a few bursts in the general direction of the enemy, calling for his comrade to join him until their reinforcements arrived. Motioning with his arm, he instructed his weeping comrade to withdraw.

Chuck figured he could stay here until he either ran out of ammunition and was captured or he could fight back and hold on until his teammates arrived with a rescue party. He figured Beckman would have the 82nd Airborne in the air already and the sky would soon fill with parachutes. _NOT_! He was on his own.

If this was a scenario from Call of Duty he'd have snipers on the flanks and a rear security team but he was playing a single-player scenario like none he'd encountered. What was it Casey always said 'A good offense is the best defense'? He couldn't charge them, hell he couldn't even crawl them. But he _could_ call in artillery on them.

**Curve View Bridge – Swat Team**

"Let me get this straight, Agent Walker. You want me and my team to hang on to one end of this rope while you dangle down about 50 feet or so. Then you want us to swing you as close as we can get to the cliff face and then you're going to signal us to let go and you'll grab the rock face and climb up? Is that right? Am I hearing you correctly? You want to swing to the other side and hope, yes, hope, you can find a hand hold on the rock face when you sail off into space and hit it – hard - I might add, and scramble in the dark for a grab?" asked an incredulous Marcus Brunner.

"Exactly" replied Agent Sarah Walker, who was impatiently putting on a harness and checking that her weapons were secure.

"_Are you out of you fucking mind, Agent?" _ Brunner was extremely agitated. He rarely yelled, certainly not at a woman, and he never, ever used profanity.

"Probably, but I don't see another option. Going around will take too long and I don't think he can hold out against trained assailants. He doesn't have tactical training. He doesn't even have basic training. He's just an analyst." _'No, damn it, he's not an analyst. He's the man you love, Sarah Walker. The man __**we**__ love.' Dammit, Jenny, not now.' _

"Just how important is this guy, anyway? What's so special about him?" Brunner knew he was treading on dangerous ground. This young woman was obviously obsessed with getting across the gorge. Even at the risk of her own life. If she felt he wasn't going to help he, he didn't want to even imagine her reaction.

"He's the most incredible, ah… important man to m… I mean the US Government. You have no idea. There are enemy agents trying to take him away from m…us and we have to stop them. Is that clear enough for you?"

Turning and shouting to his team, "Ok, you heard the lady, get the ropes ready. We're gonna swing her as far out as we can and then let go. She's going to grab the rock face and climb up to the roadway. She'll tie off her rope and throw it over to us. We'll bend another rope to it and she'll pull it over and secure it to the guardrail. We'll repeat this until we've got a 3-rope monkey bridge and then we'll go over and assist her in taking out those enemy agents and bring our boy home. Any questions?"

**Fortress Bartowski**

He fumbled around in Casey's bag of tricks and pulled out the bag of grenades. A dozen. Figures. He'd once heard Casey refer to them as "eggs." He knew from watching movies and from CoD role-playing that the bursting radius was well outside his safety zone so he didn't have to worry about blowing himself up or shrapnel. Not behind this log he'd come to love. He laid out 3 of the deadly projectiles and pondered his pattern. He was going to have to use his teeth, he only had one hand and he didn't dare risk fumbling with it one-handed. He straightened the pins on each of the 3, keeping them inserted and holding down the spoon. He pulled the pin on the first grenade with his teeth carefully, holding down the spoon. He spit the pin out and drew back his arm and threw the grenade in the general direction of his attackers, guided by the sound of the bursts of suppressing fire thumping into his beloved tree.

**Killing Zone**

Agent Kai was forced to crawl back to his wounded comrade after he ignored his signals to withdraw. Turning him over he saw that he had been wounded high in the right shoulder and also in the lower abdomen. _AIEEEEE!_ Now he knew the reason for his comrade's womanly shrieks… womanly, indeed.

He pulled him back towards the safety of the clearing. There he would tend to his wounds as best he could until the remainder of his comrades arrived.

Grabbing him by the collar of his coat, he pulled him back one-handed, firing bursts at the tree to keep his ambusher's head down. He didn't notice the dark egg-shaped object sail over the tree and land about 10 yards to his left.

**Curve View Bridge – Swat Team**

"That's far enough down, guys. Let's start swinging her and get the pendulum going. Listen for my signal to release. It's got to be done simultaneously or we'll be policing up her body from the riverbed. Forward… backward…" After several swings of the "pendulum", he saw her signal and yelled "Release!"

Agent Sarah Walker slammed into the rock face, knocking the wind out of her but hanging on like a bug on a windshield. She started finding handholds and pulling herself up towards the edge of the bridge abutment.

**KA-BOOM**

Marcus Brunner glanced up from his observation of Agent Walker. 'That was a grenade!' He knew the sound from his time in the military. 'Oh, crap. Hope that fella's OK'.

Sarah Walker's heart froze. Grenade. Chuck didn't have any grenades, just his newly beloved .45 Colt. Strange that he had become so attached to such a bulky antique. No accounting for personal tastes. 'Maybe my mission's over and I don't know it yet? Was he dead? Captured?'

Well hanging around the rock face wasn't going to get things done. Or answer her questions. She continued her scramble and finally reached the top. Looking back at her team, she grinned at the collective 'thumbs up' her team was giving her. Detaching the rope from her harness, she prepared to throw it over to the other side after securing the end to the guardrail. Piece of cake.

**High Sierra National Forest – 1 mile north of ambulance wreckage**

Colonel Wu sat in the back seat of his Mercedes with the heater blasting speaking to his cavalry screen leader. "You heard automatic weapons fire? And grenades? How far are you from the wreckage site?"

"Well, contact your remaining cyclists and approach the site from the west and east. Try to contact the forward elements again. I want this Yankee alive, so use care and do not injure him. We will approach

down the main road from the north. We should be there momentarily. Determine the situation and contact me. Do not engage the package. Reconnaissance only until I can assess the situation and formulate an attack plan."

He would have the prize without having to pay for it. If any of his men had to die, there were billions to replace them. Life was good.

He signaled his driver to approach slowly. The other vehicles followed. Their drivers had learned to anticipate the mercurial colonel's moods and to avoid his wrath and punishments.

**Curve View Bridge – Swat Team**

They now had their 3rd rope across and secured. The monkey bridge was finished and they began ferrying over personnel and equipment. Sarah Walker waited impatiently for all the team members to get across so she could execute her planned rescue.

There were no further sounds of explosions or gunfire. Maybe that was good. Maybe Chu… her asset was Ok and this would all be over shortly. Maybe. She checked her personal weapons for the hundredth time and sighed. What was taking them so long to cross 30 feet?

**Fortress Bartowski**

He was cold. And wet. And his casts were soggy, wet masses of softening plaster. Lying in the snow dressed as he was, even wrapped in a blanket, did little to stop the snow from melting, soaking him and causing shivering and trembling as his body tried to warm itself. His leg was throbbing. He figured he'd undid some of the doctors' handiwork. Bed rest didn't exactly describe his current situation. .

He figured he'd finally killed the two attackers who he'd initially ambushed. It had been awhile since he'd heard anything after the grenade blast.

What he really didn't understand was why were there only two of them? Where was the main body? If the was a CoD scenario he'd put a squad out watching his flanks, hoping to ambush any enveloping troops. Well, bit hard to do that playing solo. Still, he'd been very quiet and tried to identify any sounds that were alien to a forest. The soft snow probably muffled sounds so he needed to stay extra vigilant.

If he weren't rescued soon he'd be a Chucksicle. And still it snowed. A nice wet heavy snow perfect for snowballs and snowmen but really bad for an inadequately dressed broken man from Southern California.

He was getting drowsy. Couldn't fall asleep. Might not wake up or worse, wake up in a PRC gulag.

To stay awake he reloaded the 3 expended mags for his .45 and straightened the pins on his remaining grenades. He checked that his clacker was on safe and he wouldn't accidentally fire his claymore until he felt it necessary. He carefully placed one of the grenades into the crook of his slinged arm. He would not be taken alive.

Sarah Walker was about to tear someone a new asshole. Her cell phone was buzzing. It could only be Casey or maybe General Beckman. She pulled it out and checked the caller ID. Private name, private number. Well, it might be something important.

"Hello."

"Jenny?"

"No, there's no one here named Jenny. I'm… I'm sorry. There is no Jenny Burton here. Just Agent Walker." And hung up the cell phone.

Chuck Bartowski flung the phone out into what he now called his "killing field". After all those words, all those promises. No. No more. He was done. Never, ever, again. She'd played him from the start. Played him for a fool. For the last time. He was done with Sarah Walker, Jenny Burton, whoever the hell she was.

The pain in his new wounds and his side were pin pricks compared the sudden crushing in his chest. Goodie. A heart attack? He didn't want to live on the same planet as the Bitch Agent Sarah Walker anyway.


	20. Chapter 20

Moah20

_A/N: For those of you not too happy with the turn of events within the complexity of the Chuck/Sarah scenario, especially the " phone call scene" that has aroused the purists, I say __**reread the chapters.**__ From Chuck's perspective help is a long time coming. He's already figured that nightfall and weather preclude any rescue until the following day. So, purists, he doesn't know she's on the end dam of the bridge. He thinks she's back at Fulton Memorial and he knows his current situation has no favorable outcome. And as for the reason for the call… how many people called their loved ones from the Twin Towers that morning? And why?_

_And for those of you who cannot fathom Sarah's reversal and apparent rejection of Chuck once again perhaps you should consider an underlying but as yet undisclosed reason. And besides, the dialogue suggests that AGENT WALKER is there, NOT Jenny Burton. An impossibility but not from a psychological standpoint. Walker is doing this, Jenny is not doing this. _

**Previously**

"Hello."

"Jenny?"

"No, there's no one here named Jenny. I'm… I'm sorry. There is no Jenny Burton here. Just Agent Walker." And hung up the cell phone.

… The pain in his new wounds and his side were pin pricks compared the sudden crushing in his chest. Goodie. A heart attack? He didn't want to live on the same planet as the Bitch Agent Sarah Walker anyway.

**Curve View Bridge Crossing**

She couldn't believe what she'd done. He had no idea the rescue force was almost to him, that _she_ was almost to him. He thought she was still back at the hospital, waiting for daybreak. He called to hear her, to hear her voice, to get some reassurance that help was coming, that he hadn't been abandoned. He called Jenny Burton and Agent Walker had answered. And hung up. She'd rejected him once more. After her promise, no lies, no deceptions.

Casey was right. Life was full of sharp edges and she was protecting herself from life's lacerations, from the impossibly sharp edge of loving Chuck Bartowski. Her life was full of contradictions. When he wanted a real relationship she'd sought protection under her cover. When _he_ had finally given up beating his head against the figurative wall of Agent Sarah Walker and started seeing Lou she sabotaged them. She had been jealous, or was it vindictive? And then Jill. He'd chosen her over Jill, despite knowing that Sarah Walker would not allow a relationship like he wanted. And she'd rejected him again, running from the sharp edge.

But she'd overcome that fear, confronted Beckman, gotten what she'd wanted, told Chuck she wanted him with all his sharp edges and he had rejected _her_. But he'd seen through the façade of Sarah Walker and offered Jenny Burton that chance. And she'd accepted his heart – to do this to it.

"Ok, Agent, we're all ready to go. Might I suggest we move out in a modified arrow-head pattern? You behind the lead and the medic bringing up the rear. That way if we run into an ambush we'll be able to flank them." Brunner was experienced in woodland warfare. He used to be an instructor. But he figured the Agent might have something else in mind. So he was surprised when she looked at him briefly and said "Whatever. Just don't let any of your people get hurt. "

"Guys, arrowhead, agent in front. Sweep both sides of the roadway and watch out for bad guys but don't shoot our boy. He's had a rough few days. Questions? Move it out then". Marcus Brunner was glad to take up the 2nd position. He did not want to be in front of Agent Walker.

**Ambulance wreckage – Colonel Wu****'s force**

"Deploy as we planned. Full frontal assault. Cyclists to the flanks to provide distractions and deception. Only firing is to keep the target's head down. No injury or damage, please. I want the Yankee alive and unharmed. He is immensely valuable to our country. Comrades, do not fail me or the motherland."

Colonel Wu dismissed his troops knowing that his orders would be carried out. He retired to his Mercedes. He hated the cold and snow. He longed for his southern home. It was warm there all year round.

**Fortress Bartowski**

He could see his adversaries approaching, still silhouetted against the waning fires of scattered wreckage, the newly fallen snow enhancing the meager light. He prepared the last of his grenades, setting 3 out and putting a 4th far back in the sling between his arm and side. His .45 he stowed in his sling. He'd only need one round in the .45 anyway.

It was time to rock 'n roll with the MP-5. He set the extra magazines where he could swap them. He'd practiced a few times. He'd never done it before. Too bad he couldn't just magically download physical combat skills from the intersect.

Strange, he wasn't physically cold any longer even though his leg cast was saturated and practically sloughing off like Biblical leprosy. He'd have to be careful since most of the support it rendered his broken leg was gone. The cast on his arm fared better thanks to the protection of the sling.

The advancing force was almost to the point he'd established in his mind as a firing point. Chuck figured human morbid curiosity would slow the advance at about the point where the bodies of his first two attackers lay. He had no idea, no concept, of the effectiveness of a Claymore except the dry description and statistics of the intersect data. Knowing the data was one thing, experiencing the data in a real-life event, that was something else again. He filed that thought away for future pondering. Pure knowledge without contextual experience… interesting but definitely for a 'later time'. If experience was the best teacher, he was about to get the lesson of a lifetime.

Scrambling to find it in the dark, he grabbed the clacker (also known as Device, Firing, Claymore) and squeezed it shut several times. Think of a really big staple gun. Same thing.

**BLAM**

The flankers had abandoned their motorcycles and proceeded on foot to reach their positions. The 4 to the west had the hardest and farthest to go. It was necessary to skirt impassable areas of blown down trees and thick underbrush and it was difficult maintaining quiet even with the blanket of new snow muffling the sound. And so they were actually approaching Chuck's position from 200 yards southeast. And that's when they bumped into the rescue force.

"Contact" and all the swat team members reacted as trained, wheeling to face an enemy and preparing to neutralize any threats by any means necessary. It was no contest. It was over in less than 15 seconds. All hostiles neutralized and no friendly casualties. Sarah Walker had not even needed to fire her weapon.

**Fortress Bartowski**

Chuck heard firing from behind him. He hadn't expected a rescue party until daybreak at the earliest. He figured Casey would come charging up to him… but wait. Casey's charging days were over. So it would probably be an NSA force but at this point he really didn't care if it was troop of Girl Scouts. He just wanted to go home.

He didn't hear the two remaining flankers from the east slip up on him until it was too late.

FT Meade MD – NSA Headquarters

General Beckman had been watching the events in the High Sierra National Forest unfold via a Keyhole Satellite she had tasked to orbit the location. Using top secret telemetry and thermography, the agents and analysts manning the operations center had a bird's eye view of the area and had watched as Bartowski eliminated the first two enemy agents using small arms and grenades. They had watched the rescue team cross the breach in the bridge and overcome the small force attempting to flank the asset's position.

General Beckman had called Marcus Brunner after the debacle with the A10s and "suggested" that he approach the agents at the hospital with an offer of assistance. And then she'd called Sarah Walker who had been monitoring Guard with the command post she'd established. She told her to leave the command post and go to a private location and contact her via cell. She instructed her to organize the rescue force and extract the asset from harm's way and failing that, eliminate any possibility of the asset falling into enemy hands. She was to tell Ellie Bartowski that her fiancé had been rescued but that her brother was dead. If eliminating Chuck Bartowski became a necessity, she didn't want complications from his family. Her reaction had been… volcanic.

"You want me to do wh_at? You want me to lie to Ellie Bartowski and tell her that her brother is dead just to cover your ass if you have to terminate him? _ Wasn't trying to kill him with A10s enough for you? Isn't it enough that he's probably dead already or dying? My God, General, when will the sacrifices to the greater good end? When we're all dead? I won't do it. You hear me? I. Will. Not. Kill. Chuck. Bartowski." And hung up.

Beckman waited a few minutes, took a call from Marcus Brunner who informed her that the rescue force with Agent Walker in charge would be at the bridge site within a few hours.

She then called Major John Casey. And that was a very interesting phone call.

"Major Casey, I understand you were injured. Has Agent Walker left yet with the Deputy Brunner's SWAT team?"

"Oh, yeah, that's one stone cold agent you got there, General."

"How so, Major?" She had a feeling she knew but wanted confirmation.

"Well, she told Ellie Bartowski about Devon's rescue and the told her that her brother was dead. No emotion, no sign of remorse, grief, nothing you'd expect from someone who just lost the love of her life. And General, just for the record, I _know Chuck Bartowski is still alive._ I told her that. I showed her the new bug tracker. It was like she didn't care. In fact, she was pleased that the equipment worked better than advertised."

"General, I told her I had the proof. That Chuck Bartowski was still alive. I proved it to her and she knows he's still alive but it's like she doesn't care. He's 'the asset" again. General, I know you. What did you do to her?"

"Major, first, I've known all along about the "bugs" you put in the casts. One of analysts at SigInt reported multiple hits on the assets location instead of the known transponders in his watch. It didn't take me long to track down where those bugs came from and who had them. Congratulations, by the way. That was brilliant spy craft. I just wish you'd have left well enough alone and not been so adamant about informing her that he was still alive. This complicates matters immensely."

"General, I know why I was assigned to this mission. To eliminate the asset if he proved unreliable or if it became expedient. I know I'm a burn-out. But why was Sarah Walker assigned? A top field operative assigned to be the honey trap? Doesn't make much sense for the government to waste a valuable asset on baby-sitting duty. There's something wrong with Walker, isn't there?"

"Very perceptive, Major Casey. But you've made some understandable assumptions that are incorrect.

First, we don't consider you a case of burn out. But I'll get back to you in a minute. Sarah Walker is a classic case of Acute PTSD. Too much has happened in too short a time. None of her training prepared her for her last two missions prior to being assigned to the Intersect project. Although she completed her missions successfully, she almost got her partner, Bryce Larson, killed through carelessness, inattentiveness and avoidance of standard operating procedures. It's a pity Larson wasn't killed. It would have saved us all a lot of headaches."

"She was removed from field duty and sent to mandatory counseling. Well, that didn't go well at all. The shrinks suggested to Arthur Graham that she be given 'light missions' until she could deal with anxieties and avoidance. In other words, bench her but don't let her know. If was hoped that light duty coupled with being in a 'normal environment' would enable to get her head straight. But no one expected the Intersect to perform as it did. Nor was it expected to bond you and Agent Walker both so closely to Bartowski and enhance the overall performance of the group."

Casey grinned at that. "He does sort of grow on you, doesn't he, Auntie Diane?"

They both shared a rare laugh at that. "Yes, he does, Major Casey. Yes, he does. But you were wrong in your assessment of roles. Major Casey, you were the stick, Agent Walker was the carrot. There was to be no honey trap employed. Her developing feelings for the intersect are signs of improvement. But now, because of circumstances, she's reverted back to being a classic PTSD case."

"So what do we do, General?" asked Casey.

"What's done is done. We'll just have to see if the Bartowski magic can bring her around. Just don't be too difficult with her. Just be as supportive as you can without being totally out of character, John."

And that was that.

From all appearances, the rescue was going well. And the asset, well, he'd performed as well as any trained agent, proving to be both innovative and skillful. It had been almost physically painful for her to watch an injured Bartowski move the few yards from the wreck to his current position. Given his previous injuries and possibly new ones, any movement alone was incredible. But to watch him drag himself to a defensive position and then subsequently eliminate his attackers, well, that was miraculous.

And the rescue force was now less than 100 yards from his position when the two remaining flankers attacked from within dense underbrush that almost totally masked their imagery and infrared signatures.

**Approaching Fortress Bartowski – 50 yards south**

"Move out. We have a ways to go. Resume formation and approach with extreme caution. There may be others out there. Maintain combat intervals and silence." Marcus Brunner was feeling pretty good. Things were going well. Four bad guys down without a friendly injury. Things didn't normally happen that way except in training scenarios and the movies.

Sarah Walker knew Brunner was correct and it took all her professional training to stop her from running the last 50 yards to get to Chuck. She had a lot of explaining to do and had no idea of the reception she'd get.

It was still too dark to see Chuck Bartowski hauled unceremoniously from behind his tree and dragged north along the road to a vehicle. If Sarah Walker had abandoned her professional training she might have been able to stop his capture. After all, there were only two of them.

The two flankers were hauling Chuck by whatever they could grab. The Colonel has specified no injuries so they could not use their rifles to butt stroke him into compliance. They were dragging their captive along and one of them contacted Colonel Wu via radio and advised him of the successful capture.

"And what of the remainder of our force? Are they with you?"

"No, sir, we are all that remains. The eastern flankers ran into an apparent rescue force and were eliminated."

"Well, that is too bad. But they accomplished their mission by delaying the Yankees. You have done well. Is the captive alive and unharmed?" This last was said in a threatening tone of voice. The men knew their colonel well.

"He has some previous injuries and has casts on his arm and leg, but they are soaked and are more hazard that help. We are moving slowly so as not aggravate his existing injuries."

"Stop where you are. We will come to you. Excellent work."

Within a few minutes Chuck Bartowski was seated in the rear of an incredibly warm Mercedes listening to Colonel Wu give his remaining men their instructions. They were to accompany the colonel to the extraction site and then proceed back to the consulate at daybreak.

"Now then, are you comfortable?" Colonel Wu watched the young shivering man. Soaked to the skin, he looked like a tall, skinny rat. The download of Mandarin still appeared to be fully functional, answering a question Chuck had posed to himself regarding data retention.

So it was a surprised Colonel who heard his wet rat captive answer in Mandarin his English question. "Yes, Colonel Wu, I am warming up. I apologize for my appearance but circumstances were beyond my control. I also apologize for this…" and slowly reached into his sling and removed his .45 Colt and handed it butt-first to the Colonel. The agent riding shotgun had a pistol aimed at Chuck's heart so it was a risk to remove his Colt and an even bigger risk to hand it to the Colonel.

The colonel took the proffered pistol with a delighted grin. A Yankee who spoke Mandarin Chinese, and with manners. Surely the gods of heaven were smiling on him.

He threw the Colt to the agent and said to him "When we get to the rendezvous site, execute those two incompetents. They should have searched him before allowing him into my vehicle. Incompetence should be punished. Driver, proceed to site 3 for extraction with all possible speed."

Chuck was sitting to the right of Colonel Wu behind the agent riding shotgun whose aim had not wavered an inch since he was unceremoniously dumped into the Mercedes. As the car slewed around on the snowy road and headed north, Chuck saw a figure with blonde hair running toward the vehicle. She was soon left far behind.

'Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten me into, Bryce. Thanks a lot, pal.' Chuck really wasn't blaming Bryce. It was Fate and her Fickle Finger.

Chuck had been forced by his casts to lean against the door and he knew they were automatically locked when the car went into drive. But he figured that with all the confusion that was about to erupt he could count on someone unassing the vehicle from the front and to do that, they had to unlock the doors.

"Colonel, my compliments. I am Agent Charles Carmichael and to show you my willingness to avoid any unpleasantness, I offer this as a gesture of my sincerity." Chuck reached further into his sling. The guard started to object, raising his pistol but the Colonel gestured for him to turn around and sit down. Apparently this Yankee was resigned to his circumstances and willing to make the most of his situation and so he perceived no overt threat. The man had surrendered a hidden weapon and now offered additional examples of his sincerity.

Chuck took a deep breath and reached far into his sling. He seemed to fumble a bit and the Colonel was more disarmed. What could a one-armed man do against 3 armed agents? So he waited patiently.

"Ah, here it is," and handed the colonel the straightened pin from his last grenade.

"What is this?" The Colonel didn't recognize the purpose of the piece of metal.

"Oh, it's part of this!" and Chuck removed the grenade, still holding down the spoon.

The colonel's eyes bulged when he saw the grenade. "This is madness!"

Chuck took that look as the perfect moment to pop the spoon arming the grenade and to lob it into the front of the Mercedes where it rolled around on the floor.

As he'd anticipated, the driver panicked and popped the door locks and tried to get out of the speeding car. The other agent also tried to get out as did the colonel.

The driver was hung up on his seatbelt, trying to steer the car and release the restraints all the while looking at the grenade rolling around on the floor. The other agent had no such constraints. He opened the door and dove headfirst out of the car.

Colonel Wu might have gotten out except that Chuck had backhanded him in the face with his cast-encased first. 'Oh, that will leave a mark!' Chuck thought and he popped open his door and fell out of the Mercedes. He rolled across the roadway into a drainage ditch just as the Mercedes exploded in a dirty flash of light and a dull boom and careened into a stand of trees. The fuel tank ignited, illuminating the falling snow and trees.

Agent Sarah Walker and the SWAT team were running up the road and saw the Mercedes explode, run off the right hand side of the road and burst into flames from a distance. Walker continued running until she came across the Chinese agent who had rolled from the car. He sat up, bruised, battered and disoriented and raised his hands and Sarah Walker double-tapped him as she ran toward the burning wreck missing the partially-clothed figure lying in the drainage ditch to her left.

**St. Gustavus Hospital – ICU**

Ellie Bartowski walked out of Devon Woodcombe's room grinning like an idiot. John Casey had arranged for her to be taken to the hospital Devon had been admitted to. He had been in surgery of over 4 hours and she had been worried sick about him and her brother. The news about Devon was encouraging. No loss of motor skills or range of movement to his left shoulder should be expected. He would not need to select another specialty instead of surgery.

There was no news at all about her brother.

First, Agent Sarah Walker had told her he was dead, then John Casey had shown them both some gizmo that was tracking Chuck using body heat as a power source. Devious John had put them in place himself during Chuck's initial surgeries. And since he'd been unconscious and rarely lucid, he'd been generally ignored. After all, who wanted to hear that Chuck had bugs.

When that woman had first told Ellie that Chuck had been killed during an unsuccessful rescue attempt she'd believed her. Ellie Bartowski knew when a person was in shock. And clearly the woman was. But then John Casey had demanded their attention and proved that he was alive.

She showed no change in attitude or demeanor. She simply left with Deputy Brunner on a supposed rescue mission leaving her behind to tend to John Casey. Her reaction wasn't what Ellie would have expected from someone who had shared the joyous news of her new 'arrangement' with her brother. Was it just yesterday? So much had happened in such a short span of time.

**FT Meade, MD – NSA Headquarters**

General Beckman received a call from Deputy Sheriff Brunner confirming what she'd seen on the satellite images. The screen had a "white out" and the optics switched to a different frequency of light to block out the flare caused by the explosion within the Chinese colonel's vehicle. This caused a gap in coverage of 3 seconds, not a lot considering the original intent of the satellite's designers. But enough to miss a body rolling into a partially-filled drainage ditch.

_She mentally ticked off the number of rescue team members against the number of images on the screen. All accounted for, no extra images. No Chuck Bartowski._

She dialed Agent Walker's cell phone and listened to it ring and ring without anyone answering. Well, she's probably got it on silent/vibrate. That was SOP for ops. And Sarah Walker would have run this one strictly by the book.

**High Sierra National Forest – Rescue Team**

Marcus Brunner walked up quietly and squatted down beside a kneeling Agent Sarah Walker. She was staring intently at the fiery wreckage of the Mercedes but she was seeing the fiery wreckage of her future. She was also holding her 9mm Browning Hi-Power with the muzzle pressed up under her chin.

'Oh, fuck me running, not again.' He thought. 'This is getting to be a recurring event'.

"Agent Walker? Sarah? Sarah, I'm going to reach out and take the gun from your hand. I'm not going to hurt you. He wouldn't want this, Sarah. You know he wouldn't." all said in almost a whisper. "It's not your time."

He gently moved the pistol from under her chin, then from her hand. She never moved. Just stared intently at the flames.

_A/N: For you shippers who've lasted this long with hope for a happy ending: _There is love of course. And then there's life, its enemy.

_Fear not, don't worry, be happy. Charrah may yet prevail._

~Armor-Plated-Rat~


	21. Chapter 21

Moah21

See Armor-Plated-Rat's important notes at the end of this update.

**Previously**

"Agent Walker? Sarah? Sarah, I'm going to reach out and take the gun from your hand. I'm not going to hurt you. He wouldn't want this, Sarah. You know he wouldn't." all said in almost a whisper. "It's not your time."

He gently moved the pistol from under her chin, then from her hand. She never moved. Just stared intently at the flames.

**FT Meade, MD – NSA Headquarters**

She answered her phone with her usual terse greeting: "Beckman."

"General, this is Marcus Brunner. Ah, we have a situation here. I need your advice and direction on handling this." He sounded hesitant, even to himself. Not at all his usual 'I know what I'm doing' confidence.

"Deputy Brunner, it's been a long 3 days. What situation do you have that you can't handle?" She didn't need to be snippy. It wasn't his fault. None of them were at fault. It was just life, in all its unpredictable splendor. "I'm sorry for my tone, Marcus. What's the situation up there? I've got an NSA clean-up crew coming down from the north. We're still delaying opening up the highway but the press is pushing for pictures and it's only a matter of time until we have to let those bloodsucking vampires fly their damned news choppers."

"It's Agent Walker. I think she's had some kind of breakdown. I'm no expert but…" and he told her about the attack, how she killed the surrendering Chinese agent and finally how he came to find her. He told her everything.

"I see. Well, hold her there, keep her comfortable and the clean-up crew will assist her. Our people are only human, Marcus. This happens far too often, and almost always to the best we have. Thank you for your concern. Call me when the crew arrives." And hung up.

One of the SWAT team members ran up to Marcus. "We found a live one, in the ditch. You better get on the horn and get a chopper or something or we'll lose him."

Cell phone in hand, he ran to where the SWAT team members were standing in the drainage ditch. They were carefully lifting a body from the ditch. Their concern for a spinal injury was evident but they were more concerned with possible hypothermia killing him before medical assistance could arrive on site.

Each of them had removed their parkas and either put them down on the snow covered road or were ready to cover the man with theirs. Marcus Brunner just stood and shook his head. This guy was a cat with 9 lives. The he looked over at Sarah Walker, still kneeling and staring at the burning Mercedes.

'Sarah, there's something over here that requires your immediate attention. Let me help you up." He led her over to the pile of parkas. She looked down curiously at the pile then at Brunner. "What is it? What's this got to do with me?" and started to turn around. Marcus bent down and removed the parka covering Chuck's head and face. "Well, look who I found!"

**High Sierra National Forest – Extraction Flight**

The only thing he'd said to Sarah Walker when she found him was "I'm broken. Aren't we a pair." He hadn't said a coherent thing since then. Sarah Walker held Chuck's hand the entire flight to Moab but he never said another thing. And neither did she.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility – 3 days after extraction**

He was warm. That was his first coherent thought. And thirsty. That was his second thought. He didn't have a third thought because he fell back to sleep.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility – 4 days after extraction**

He couldn't find his .45 Colt. He knew he had put in his sling. He'd fired the Claymore and reached for it but it was gone. And he couldn't find his MP-5. It was gone, too. And his grenades, he couldn't find them. It was too dark to see. He knew he was being flanked and he had nothing to fight back with. And he couldn't seem to catch his breath. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. His legs wouldn't work. He couldn't feel his legs! He started to panic. He could hear them coming and he couldn't even scream out his rage.

And he was hot. Burning up. And thirsty.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 5 days after extraction**

23 and 24 were driving the ambulance and talking. 23 laughed and the K-Bar in his throat bounced up and down as he did. 24 looked back at Chuck strapped to the gurney. His face had burned off and his blackened skull was leering at him. "Hey, Auntie Diane called. She's sorry but you failed the test. But don't worry. Agent Walker is very satisfied with Bryce. You were never good enough for her anyway. You couldn't even die according to plan. And you failed to protect the intersect, Chuckie-boy. And now we're going to sell your brain to the Chinese. Oh, and John Casey said he'll see you soon. And not to squeal like a little girl when they rip your brain out. Man up, Chuck."

And he slept. And slept.

"Chuck…Chuck… wake up Chuck. It's time, Chuck. The new intersect is a success. Time for you to go underground forever, Chuck." He could see a coffin with a lid open in a grave. He knew what he had to do. He climbed down into the coffin and closed the lid. At least he was warm. "Good bye, Chuck." It was Agent Sarah Walker's voice. Well, she is still maintained her perfect record. Mission accomplished.

And he slept.

"Chuck Bartowski, I want you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you but you don't trust me. I wouldn't trust me if I were you knowing what you know." She was right. He didn't trust her. And it was killing him to admit it. But he had the proof: "There's no one here named Jenny. I'm… I'm sorry. There is no Jenny Burton here. Just Agent Walker."

And still he slept. But he was cold. Shivering. He was back in that damned drainage ditch. And he was thirsty. Someone was pouring water over his face. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. He couldn't move his legs or arms.

He was delirious and some of the things he said were enlightening and others were heartbreaking to those tasked with recording them. He talked to dead people. He had conversations in Chinese with a dead Chinese colonel. He had apologized profusely to the colonel for breaking his nose and blowing up his Mercedes.

He fought against the restraints and cried and screamed and relived the wreck and his firefight over and over as if searching his memory for some critical piece of information he misplaced. The agents monitoring the recordings had been impressed with his tactics and solutions. "Auntie Diane's Nephew" had become an overnight folk hero at the NSA and CIA. His actions became the stuff of legends.

Ellie had gone to check on Devon and John Casey leaving Sarah alone with Chuck for almost the first time.

They were sharing a room and neither thought it was "awesome". In a wheelchair, Casey had spent most of the past 4 days just talking with Sarah Walker, listening, trying to do what Beckman asked but it was hard. He desperately wanted to slap the crap out of her and tell her to just love him and let nature take its course. But, of course, he didn't.

Sarah Walker sat in the room wearing a gown and mask, listening to the monitors beep and whirl. It was SOP for visitors since his immune system was compromised and the medical staff didn't want him exposed to anything else. What he had was bad enough.

She held his hand. Again marveling at the perfect fit. Hands that were meant to be joined. His were bandaged and covered with some goop Ellie said was to prevent further damage to his frostbitten fingers. Her hands were still cut and scraped from her mad scramble up the cliff face. She would probably lose one nail, maybe two. Small price to pay.

And she was so damned tired. Tired of being tired. She just wanted to see him open his eye and smile at her. Was that too much to ask, God? Just a smile.

She laid her head down next to his arm, careful of the IV's and all the monitoring gadgets they had wired to him. She'd just rest here until he woke up. She would have loved to have held it against her face and imagined he was doing it but the doctor was adamant about the restraints. Chuck had tried to pull out his IV's during one particularly violent flashback and so he was in 5-point restraint for his own protection.

As tired as she was, the thought of 5-point restraint and a healthy and horny Chuck brought a smile to her face. She was _such_ a slut. Grinning, she placed a kiss in his palm and lay her head down beside his arm and slept.

Chuck's fever broke sometime during the long period he'd called 'night'.

He managed to open his one good eye but all he could see was the usual government acoustical tile ceiling. He was dying of thirst. Or at least that's how he felt. Dying. He'd been near dead since he could remember. He tried to take inventory but the only thing he seemed to be able to move was his eyeball. And he couldn't feel his legs. Or his right arm. Was he paralyzed? Had he pushed his luck with the grenade in the Mercedes?

Odd. Here he was, a 'stone-cold killer' and his first thought was that he didn't feel anything. He'd killed 2 unsuspecting Chinese agents. But they were far from innocent. And he'd killed 2 more and a whole bunch he couldn't even remember. But he didn't feel any horror or remorse. He just felt tired and thirsty.

He tried to speak but his throat would not cooperate. He just made some moaning sounds and hoped that someone would walk by and hear him. Maybe they'd have pity and get him something to drink or contact that guy who assisted suicides. Put him out of his misery. '… I'm sorry. There is no Jenny Burton here.'

'Zombies?' She swore she heard those zombie moans from the movie Chuck had forced her to watch one night. She didn't want to admit it but it scared her. She hated the thoughts of the undead chasing her around. There it was again. She lifted her head and saw the source. One brown eye, open and bloodshot, staring at her. He was awake. The undead was awake.

"Hey, I was about ready to give up on you. Figured you were gonna do a Rip Van Winkle on me. About time you decided to awaken, Sleeping Beauty." She figured out his problem almost immediately. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. She went to the carafe and poured him a glass and put in a hospital straw.

"Here" and she helped him sit up a bit and held the straw out for him to drink. "Not too much now, it's not going anywhere. You don't want to get sick."

"You had us really worried. It's been 5 days since the firefight. You've been really sick. Pneumonia they said. More water?" He nodded slowly and sipped the straw.

"Devon is going to be fine. He and Casey are roommates. Casey's not that thrilled but then this is not the Taj Majal and rooms are limited." She answered questions he hadn't asked yet, hoping she wouldn't have to answer the one he most wanted to ask.

"Ca… Casey…?" Casey was dead. Three to the center. He'd seen it. '_phffffft phfffft phfffft'_ he'd heard the silenced reports. And seen him crumple inward upon himself as he was blown backward by the impacts. His head hitting the ground. The sound he once heard in a supermarket when someone dropped an overly-rip cantaloupe from a display.

"He was wearing a vest. Good thing, too. The Praetorian traitor was a crack shot. Nice tight shot group. Even Casey was impressed. He'd have been dead meat without the vest. As it is, he has the mother of all headaches."

"Ch…Chine…?" He was tiring and his throat really was too sore to speak.

"The Chinese? All dead, Chuck. You took out two initially, with that cannon of yours and a grenade. And then neutralized 6 more with your claymore. We encountered 4 trying to flank you and took them all down. And you eliminated the Chinese colonel and his driver with the grenade. I took care of the one who got out of the Mercedes when you did."

She was very careful not to say, "killed". The psych officer had stressed that from the transcripts of Chuck's ravings he was trying to reconcile his actions with his moral compass and having a hard time of it.

She would have expected nothing less from him and would have been surprised by any other reaction. She knew her Chuck. He was a decent man with values and ethics far removed from and superior to the spy world she and Casey lived in.

"You?… Y', Y', You?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine Chuck. Just a bit tired. I've been worried about you. We all were worried. General Beckman has twice daily briefings by phone on your condition. She's been very concerned for you. You've made quite an impression on her. We're all very impressed with your performance, very impressed."

"No, no, who…" swallowing, his throat was constricting, unable to form the words, "who… are _you_?" His one brown eye, deep liquid stared at her intently. This was the question she had been dreading. And she dreaded the answer she knew in her heart of hearts that she would give even more.

**!!!!STOP!!!!STOI!!!!ALTO!!!!HALT!!!!**

This story and chapter stops here. There will be two epilogues. One is an Exocet (ship-killer missile) and the other is CHARRAH. I was of 2 minds over the direction of this story ending and in fact planned another chapter. However, I promised one reader in particular, who apparently has a fetish for disgusting breakfast foods, that I would offer both.

Also, this does not constitute a cliff-hanging emotional roller coaster. I almost pulled an O'Henry on you guys reminiscent of his "_Lady or the Tiger_" but even I am not that cruel.

But I'll leave you with a teaser quote as to the content of either or both

The saddest thing in the world is loving someone who used to love you.

Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go that reveals strength.

~Armor-Plated-Rat~


	22. Exocet Shipkiller

Moah22exocet **Warning - Shipkiller**

**Previously**

"No, no, who…" swallowing, his throat was constricting, unable to form the words, "who… are _you_?" His one brown eye, deep liquid stared at her intently. This was the question she had been dreading. And she dreaded the answer she knew in her heart of hearts that she would give even more.

Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 5 days after extraction

Chuck had been so long without blinking his one single functional eye that it was burning and tearing. The image he'd held in his mind's eye of this moment blurred and dissolved into a moment of heart-wrenching blackness. He didn't _need _to hear her answer. Not verbally. The look on her face said it all.

"I'm very tired. Please… just go… and let me… sleep, please". The last word was almost a hoarse whisper, full of pain and resolution. 'Why did love have to be so hard? Why did loving _her_ have to be so hard'. Not a rhetorical question, more a statement of fact. And facts were the glue that held the unique entity known to his friends and family as simply "Chuck" together.

"Sure, Chuck. Get some rest. We'll talk later, right? We have a lot to talk about, you and I." She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead and left just as silently as she had come.

He did sleep. Surprisingly dream-free which his subconscious attributed to the absence of fever but that Chuck would have acknowledged as a purging of all doubts regarding his current position in the Great Game. Dead Last.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 10 days after extraction**

Major John Casey stopped by Chuck Bartowski's room for the last time before returning to Burbank.

"Well, kid, I just stopped by to see if there was anything you needed before I headed out to the airport. Going to be pretty tame for the next 2 months without you screwing up plans and operations." This was said with the slightest hint of a smile. John Casey had come to appreciate that you couldn't judge a book by its cover or the man the girly squeal.

"Nah, Casey, I'm cool. I got my PT schedule mapped out, some time with the Wizards of My Id for new updates and mapping, and I thought I'd just spend some time chillin'. You going to be enjoying your vacation? Eight weeks away from BuyMore under the guise of National Guard training?"

"Yeah, and thanks for that." It had been Chuck's idea to hide a vacation for the NSA Agent under a military recall. It wasn't a lie. Casey was going to train – in Afghanistan. A busman's holiday.

"So, you and Walker? Working on it?" He knew that Agent Sarah Walker seemed to be spending less and less time with the asset and more and more either working with the analysts on Chuck's intelligence revelations or with Chuck himself.

"It's going to take time, Casey. We'll see what happens. Why? Fishing for a wedding invite?"

"Nope. Don't think I could handle all the tears and all that Ellie-joy. Here, found something you lost. I got to go. See you in 8 weeks or so." And he left, still not sure if he'd gotten the answer he'd been seeking.

Casey remembered something Chuck said regarding Jill after the smack-down he'd delivered after he saw Jill about to kill the love of his life. How he had read and wished he'd followed it when Jill had ripped out his heart at Stanford. It was one of those moments when Casey had cut the kid a break and just listened without judging him. "Casey, sometimes some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go that reveals strength".

**4 Years Later**

Chuck Bartowski didn't want to be late picking his wife up for their weekly lunch alfresco. It was a habit they'd gotten into a year ago when Chuck's facility had relocated closer to the airport and the Castle had been closed down because it was too small and her operations bloomed and required supervision of 3 new locations and daily travel.

He was now Director of Intelligence Analysis by Special Acquisition for the NSA. And 'Auntie Diane' was soon to be honorary great "Auntie Diane" to their first child.

He parked his wife's Porsche in the reserved spot figuring he'd be in and out before any one thought to call a cop. She reluctantly was driving his Land Rover. She couldn't get comfortably behind the wheel of her beloved Porsche any longer and Chuck worried about air bag deployment injuring her and their child in the Porsche. He knew how she drove.

For old times' sake he walked into Lou's Deli near the BuyMore. He always got a Chuck when he was near, usually made to his special order and occasionally one for his wife, although she wasn't so crazy about them since her pregnancy. Heartburn or something.

He got out and put on his suit coat. He wore one now. "Mr. Director" couldn't wear a Polo or Cherry Garcia t'shirt and get away with it anymore. Image was important, or so his wife told him. Besides, it wasn't cool waltzing around the general population with his .45 Colt shoulder rig exposed to one and all. Casey had gotten it from Marcus Brunner. Miraculously, it had survived the grenade explosion and fire and had only needed new Detonics grips. He felt undressed without it. And he knew his wife felt better when he was out and about and armed.

They'd both come so far since the BuyMore days. And they had so much further to go together.

Lou herself was behind the counter and that was rare since her business had boomed and she had multiple locations to manage. She flashed him her patented all-day smile.

"Hey, stranger, what brings you here? Slumming?"

"Nope. Meeting the wife for our weekly outdoor luncheon and I thought since I was in the neighborhood I'd swing on by and get 2 Chuck specials, please." Explanation and order all in one sentence. Managerial expertise finally showing.

"TWO Chuck specials? Y'know" and was cut off by Chuck's "Two, definitely. But no olives, no jalapenos, and definitely easy on the horseradish on hers. Baby doesn't like and baby makes her burp."

She thought that was so cute and thoughtful. "Two Chucks coming up, one dragged through the garden, the other special" as she wrote the order and handed it to one of the girls.

Chuck remembered how she'd painstakingly picked olives off the first pizza they'd shared. He never made that mistake again.

Two other customers came in and Lou wrote up their orders and passed them to another of the girls.

The counter girl passed Lou a bag and napkins. "Here ya go, two Chucks, Chuck!" It was an old joke between them and always made him smile.

Lou pulled the apron over her head and shook out her long brown ponytail. She walked out from behind the counter and looked up at him and said "Ok, husband mine, Junior is hungry and so am I. Let's go eat."

And they did.

_A/N: This is the original ending less some yada yada. Well, it is done. And I feel like crap about it. This was a cathartic journey, semi-autobiographical. No, no, I'm not Chuck. I don't work for the government, although I did but not the CIA. Change locations, nationality of the enemy, no drunk driver but a rather large explosive device, lose the Colonel and the General and Casey and your beloved Sarah and the bare bones are me. My 'Sarah', SWMNBN, has a lot in common with yours. Job-oriented to obsession, narrow-minded and focused only on her greater good. But what the hell, I love her._

_~Armor-Plate-Rat~_


	23. Charrah Part 1 of ?

Moah23Charrah

_A/N: All you love-challenged, emotionally-starved, sucrose-deprived, gotta have a happy ending… here it is. I will make it as syrupy as my own life is bereft. It will probably take a chapter or more. Your happy endings require angst, extensively introspective scenes and detail._

_Life isn't like this. Not really. There are no happy endings really. Not anymore. There are simply less painful circumstances and outcomes._

_However, I have some areas to explore in the cranky relationships between Casey and Chuck, Sarah/Jenny and the General, and between Chuck and a new young and pretty face to be introduced in the next chapter. I was thinking of calling this MOAH2: Chuck vs the Attack of the Charrans but that would be just wrong. There will be Charrah, long wet lusty charran moments, but you're going to have to be patient. You must first pay the piper._

_~ Evil has a familiar face and a voice you trust [Greg Ilse]~_

_~Armor-Plated-Rat~_

**Previously**

"Me? Oh, I'm fine Chuck. Just a bit tired. I've been worried about you. We all were worried. General Beckman has twice daily briefings by phone on your condition. She's been very concerned for you. You've made quite an impression on her. We're all very impressed with your performance, very impressed."

"No, no, who…" swallowing, his throat was constricting, unable to form the words, "who… are _you_?" His one brown eye stared at her intently. This was the question she had been dreading. And she dreaded the answer she knew in her heart of hearts that she would give even more.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 5 days after extraction**

She had the transient thought that perhaps she'd been granted a respite, that the gods themselves had intervened and granted him the gift of amnesia so that the events of the past days would erase themselves and things could revert back to the suspected rather than known. But she knew better.

"Chuck, I don't know anymore. I…I just don't know. That's not the answer you want and it's not the answer you need but it's the only answer I can give you right now. Chuck, I need some time. So much has happened and there's so much pressure, from Beckman, from protocol, from you. You want, no you _need Jenny Burton, _General Beckman wants Agent Sarah Walker, and I, I used to know exactly who I was, exactly what I wanted, then you…" she stood abruptly.

Chuck could see the tension around her eyes, the preparation of the body for fight or flight.

"I can't do this," she said aloud without realizing it. 'I can't be his Jenny Burton, not now, not yet, maybe not ever.'

And Agent Sarah Walker left the room without a backward glance, closing the door on so many possibilities.

Charles Bartowski closed his eye. At least she wasn't deceiving him. She wasn't playing him, conning him into believing a lie. And she didn't say "won't" she said "can't", a profound semantic difference upon which he hung his heart. She needed time, she'd get time. She wanted distance; she'd get that easily enough. He was hardly ambulatory, all she had to do was stay out of the room.

He slept. He had nothing else to do and reweaving the tapestry of the last day would not alter fact. Time would perhaps. In time.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 10 days after extraction**

He slept – a lot. Apparently bed rest was tiring, or he was getting old. Or bored. Or old and bored. Mostly bored.

He'd had a lot of visitors. He spoke with General Beckman almost daily regarding some issue, some miniscule area of data or analysis that was, to her, incomplete or "fuzzy". Hell, his whole outlook on life was "fuzzy". His one-eyed viewpoint on life was creating a strain and he'd already seen one specialist who had prescribed reading glasses, or considering his current physical condition, a reading monocle. And she'd threatened Chuck Bartowski with the early onset of blindness if he so much as looked at a computer monitor until he had _two_ functional eyes. When he asked her what she meant by onset she took her pen from her breast pocket (and a nicely filled-out pocket it was) and held it up for him to see.

"I mean, Agent Carmichael, that I will take this or any suitable implement and shove it into your eye socket and render you incapable of playing a damn stupid game." She leaned over him, her long brown hair falling like curtains on either side of her head, creating an intimacy between them and whispered "and I would so hate to ruin what I'm sure are a pair of gorgeous brown eyes that I hope to spend time staring into over, perhaps dinner or drinks?" and then left a stupefied Chuck wondering what had just happened.

But he quit trying to squint at the monitor and soon avoided using his eye to do anything other than just see his immediate environment. And that had been the doctor's mission in the first place.

But she had meant what she said about his eyes and made the near fatal mistake of mentioning it in the cafeteria/lounge where the medical staff and resident agents took their meals.

"I'm telling you, that Agent Carmichael, those gorgeous brown eyes, that curly hair and that luscious…aaack."

"You would do well to keep such comments regarding that particular agent to yourself, Doctor. He's not a piece of meat or another scalp to hang on your lodge poll."

The doctor could only nod her agreement since her speech was curtailed by a cessation of air. She hadn't seen the agent's face, just her departing back, long blonde hair up in a ponytail, and wearing jeans and a t-shirt. But she knew now that she had wandered into dangerous territory and sent her male assistant to meet any needs of Agent Carmichael. She was no fool.

"Shit. What is it with Bartowski and brunettes?" Maybe she'd ask Ellie if it was significant or just coincidental.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 15 days after extraction**

Chuck Bartowski had given her time and space. He had not seen her since her announcement to him in this very room more than a week ago. He'd given her time. She took it. He'd given her space, she'd used it.

"Uncle," Sarah Walker. "Uncle," Jenny Burton.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 22 days after extraction**

John Casey had come by with a present of sorts before leaving for an 8 week vacation (something Chuck had arranged with the general, even suggesting that he could sidestep the BuyMore problems by making it an annual training exercise with the National Guard. Casey really appreciated the fact that his training was in Afghanistan. He was looking forward to some serious firepower exchanges and was in a great mood – at least for John Casey.

"I got something for you. One of Marcus Brunner's guys came across it and figured you'd like to have it back" and handed him his beloved .45 Colt. Brunner had cleaned it and replaced the charred grips with brand new Detonics. Cool.

"Just don't start keeping it under your pillow. You might have a flashback and blow away one of those fine looking nurses who seem to be assigned to your personal care. How's that going, anyway? Sponge baths, all that invalid stuff. You handling it all right? Is _Walker_ handling it all right?" He was fishing for something to report back to the General. She was like an old _yenta_ where Chuck and Sarah were concerned.

"I'm handling it ok. I can do some of the more intimate stuff one handed. As for Agent Walker, don't know. Haven't seen her around lately, not in a while. I figure she's got spy stuff to do. It's not like I need a handler down here in the bowels of the earth and her talents would be wasted just sitting around on her ass waiting for the bones to knit enough that I can start PT. Even then, she's… not really needed, is she?"

Casey remembered his conversation with Sarah Walker right before she'd thrown herself at Chuck Bartowski back at Fulton Memorial. 'Trouble in Paradise. Not what the General wanted to hear.'

He'd heard about the incident in the doctor's cafeteria. Everyone had heard about the Agent who threatened the doctor for getting too close to "Agent Carmichael". Guess no one had mentioned it to Chuck. And he'd be willing to bet good money that Sarah Walker had Chuck's room bugged and under surveillance, especially at sponge-bath time. He smirked #7, the truly evil and depraved smirk.

He'd heard the tapes of their last conversation and knew that Chuck had thrown down the gauntlet and Walker had run. He warned her what would happen if she screwed with the kid's head, hurt him again with another rejection.

His call to General Beckman had been enlightening. She already knew what was going on and had implemented corrective measures. The way her eyes had narrowed when she said this made John Casey feel a sudden wave of pity for one CIA agent.

Chuck seemed to be handling it all right from what Casey could tell. No blubbering into his pillow or anything like that. Almost normal. Maybe the kid was growing up.

And he made another mental note to quit referring to Chuck Bartowski, the Hero of the Battle of High Sierra as 'the kid'. Yeah, the events were legend and "Agent Carmichael" was on everyone's A list. But he deserved the respect even if it was under his nom de guerre, so to speak.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 24 days after extraction**

"Agent Walker, you are required to return to Washington. I've arranged ground transportation from Moab to Salt Lake City. You'll find tickets at the boarding gate there. When you arrive in D.C., contact the assignments officer at Langley. Questions?" From the look on the general's face, she really did not expect any.

"General Beckman, what about the Intersect?"

"What about him? He's safe and secure. And his physical therapy and conditioning are coming along well ahead of expectation. You'd know that if you had spent any time at all with your… with Mr. Bartowski. Now, you have your orders. Major Casey will be returning from his "vacation" and will provide security when transfer is made back to his home in Burbank or elsewhere. In any event, this operation is no longer your concern. " and severed the connection leaving a confused and angry CIA agent wondering what the hell had just happened.

She called the assignments office at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. After being transferred several times and holding for what seemed to be forever she was connected to an assistant director.

"Agent Walker, your instructions were to report to the assignments officer here in the morning. Not to call here but to report here. Did you not understand those orders?"

"Yes, sir, but I was…" but she was talking to dial tone.

**CIA Headquarters, Langley, VA 25 days after extraction**

Sarah Walker entered the Office of Assignments. She identified herself and was told to take a seat and that someone would come for her. Two hours later, she was still sitting. Still waiting.

"Excuse me, but how much longer do I have to wait? I was told to report here for updated orders on a new assignment."

The secretary checked her computer and replied "No, not reassignment, separation. Your employment contract has been cancelled. You are scheduled for a physical, counseling and outplacement assistance and final payments. The admin assistant should be along any moment now" and smiled that syrupy smile used by idiots and politicians. And then returned to her computer and keyed in a special execution code.

Minutes later it was a stunned Sarah Walker who answered her cell phone. "Hello?", she wasn't sure just how she should answer. Apparently, 'Agent' Walker was inappropriate.

"Ms. Walker, General Beckman asks that you join her for dinner at her residence. A car will pick you up at your hotel at 7pm. Dress is business casual or evening casual" and disconnected.

Just then a harried-looking Admin Assistant walked in and introduced herself and led Sarah Walker down the path to a new life. And ended her involvement with the Central Intelligence Agency.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 32 days after extraction**

"OK, now take it easy. You have not been upright under your own power in a month. Just because you have a walking cast on your leg now is not reason to think you're ready to go. The term 'walking' does not really apply in your case. You will _most definitely not _be walking."

She pulled her hair back into a severe bun rather than her usual ponytail or braid. More than once she'd almost had her hair torn out by the roots when a panicked patient had grabbed on to the only thing available to keep from failing - her long braid or pony tail so she'd adopted the bun in defense. She was not going to cut her hair. Her husband loved it long and she loved him.

"Remember how tired the Range of Motion exercises on your arm made you? How sore and weak you were? Well this is going to be much, much worse. Don't look at me that way. And don't be such an impatient patient. It's just relearning how to move from the bed to the floor to the wheel chair for today."

Lydia Barnes was attractive mid-thirties OT/PT who took no prisoners, accepted no excuses and pushed patients until they dropped. Most of her patients called her sessions "Physical Torture" but not this guy.

He pulled her when she'd have pushed anyone else, drove himself harder than she'd expected and asked to extend his sessions. He was impatient to get back to normal. That's what he said. Normal. She didn't know what to make of his silences though. Lotta thinking going on behind that deep brown eye. He rarely spoke and when he did it was to ask an insightful question about his therapy and conditioning exercises.

People like Agent Carmichael and her husband reminded her of why she became a therapist in the first place. He was making her work hard to do her job and she was thoroughly enjoying it. She actually looked forward to the time they spent together.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 33 days after extraction**

Ellie and Devon were going home. Devon's PT course was complete and he only had to do a series of exercises using hospital equipment for a few more months to be as good as new. They'd been gone longer than expected and they needed to get back to the real world and their jobs. The NSA had kept its word and their student loans were history and they were even receiving retainers for their new assignments. Still, Ellie and Devon were uncomfortable about just abandoning Chuck.

"Chuck, you won't be here much longer and then you can come home and Devon can set you up with the CIA PT provider in L.A. And at least you'll be in familiar surroundings and can get back into the groove of your old life." Devon cringed when she said that. Chuck had changed. There wasn't much left of his "old life." He still had the BuyMore courtesy of the NSA invoking a national security envelope around his injury and twisting arms at BuyMore Corporate. But what else did he have? Morgan?

Ellie gave her brother a hug and smiled through her tears. He'd grown up. He was a man. But she still felt like she was abandoning him. And he would be all alone with "strangers". Devon asked Ellie to meet him at the elevator. He said he wanted a word with Chuck 'Mano a Mano'. Ellie rolled her eyes but left after giving Chuck one final bone-crushing hug. 'Ellie-sad' could be as physically daunting as 'Ellie-joy.'

"Chuck, what's with you and Sarah? I mean when all this went down I thought you had it all dialed in. She admitted she loved you, wanted a relationship and you agreed. Ellie said she was ecstatic and looking forward to a life with you. Then that crap at the bridge, this place. I mean what's up. I owe you my life, Bro, and I just want to understand and maybe help." In point of fact, Devon Woodcombe was concerned about the weight-loss, lethargy and introspective silences of his almost-brother-in-law.

Chuck sighed. He didn't need this. He didn't need the reminder. He just wished Devon would say good-bye and leave him alone.

"Now, it's like two strangers living separate lives. And she up and leaves without so much as a good bye, see ya, have a swell life? That makes absolutely no sense, Bro. None at all. Was it CIA business or what?"

"Devon, I appreciate your wanting to help but it's complicated." Sure, it was complicated. Loving someone who used to love you is… complicated. And stupid. It was insanity loving Sarah Walker or Jenny Burton or whoever the hell she was this week. Doing the same thing exactly the same way over and over and expecting the results to be different _was _insanity by definition.

"You better not keep Ellie waiting. You don't want to know what kind of trouble she could get into down here. But really, Bro, thanks. It means a lot to me that you care that much. Now, get out of here and get back to Burbank. I'll be there for the wedding, I promise." They exchanged manly hugs and Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. He hated being in that position. He hated having to explain what he himself no longer understood.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 42 days after extraction**

"And so, Agent Carmichael, at least one and possibly two surgeries will be required to retain the sight in your left eye. There was damage done that was not discovered at the time of initial treatment which is understandable considering the nature and severity of the trauma."

Chuck had zoned out. The same physician who'd proposed drinks or dinner or a pointed instrument in the eyeball was droning on and on about his limited vision, recurring headaches and probable loss of some or all of his sight in his beleaguered left eye. He'd figured that out on his own. He was about to interrupt and tell her whatever she wanted to do was fine (as long as she quit talking and moved her ample boobs from his arm) when something registered:

"and so we'll remove the eye and replace it with a 60 watt bulb. That way when you pay attention it will light up and I won't have to repeat myself."

Busted.

"Ok, sorry, I was distracted and wasn't concentrating. So what's the bottom line? I can see fuzzy outlines with the left eye. Will it get better without surgery? Worse? What?"

"It could get worse, it could stabilize but we do know that it will not improve without out surgery. And those chances currently are about 40:60 in your favor. But you have to have it soon or the odds will drop and you might just as well get a dog." She said this last with a grin. She was really trying to win him over.

"Ok, we'll do it your way, Doc."

"No, it's Jennifer Dupre, but I prefer Jenny, not Doc."

She grew concerned when Agent Carmichael paled and became very tense.

"No, _Doctor_, we'll do it your way. As soon as possible. I want all this probing and sticking and sampling and therapy crap done with. I have things to do with my life and I can't do them in this damned bottomless pit in the middle of Utah. Just schedule it. I'm at your mercy anyhow. And I don't want to know you or your name. Especially not your name. So get busy and let's get this done."

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 51 days after extraction – conference room**

General Beckman was terse as usual. "So, Doctor, you're telling his vision in his left eye is as good as it's going to get? And just how good will that be? Can it be improved with corrective lenses?"

"No, General. It's not a matter of focus. It damage done to attachment points in the retina, scarred tissue and other damage. At best he'll be able to discern fuzzy images, outlines, colors, but as for reading, viewing television, normal sight, no. It's as good as it's going to get. The headaches and eyestrain are going to be with him the remainder of his life. There is no new technology that can regenerate nerve damage at this time."

"Thank you, Doctor. If there are any changes, please contact me immediately."

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 55 days after extraction – physical therapy**

"Ok, Chuck. Time to stand alone, a redwood amongst sprouts. No casts, no crutches. Try and walk to me using the parallel bars. Just like we did with the walking cast."

Chuck felt totally disoriented. His reliance on crutches and the artificial support of his cast hadn't prepared him for the embarrassment of falling on his ass every other step. He couldn't figure out how to walk. He was like a little baby learning to walk.

"Lydia, this is so embarrassing. I know how to walk but can't. No strength in the damned leg and ankle. It's like a limp… well, you know," and he blushed furiously. One of his more endearing qualities as far as she was concerned. He wasn't whining, just 'vigorously discussing" his lack of body strength. No one ever believes her. They took walking for granted.

"Chuck, get off your ass and quit lying down on the job. The faster you're able to move and groove, the faster you're home. So, up and at 'em. I'm sure there's some sweet thing just waiting for you at home." He never discussed anything personal about things she didn't already know. This was foreign and unexplored territory to her. And she was afraid she'd really stepped in it.

He was pale, rigid, almost fighting for self-control. Emotionally in control, frighteningly in control. She wouldn't have recognized him if she didn't know it was him to begin with.

He pulled himself up and was hanging on the parallel bars. "No, there's no one back there waiting for me. She moved on. Had things to do. Important things. World-saving and shit like that. I guess I was holding her back. Not a problem now, though. So let's get back to getting me outta here."

'Oh, Chuck, what did that bitch do to you to make you so bitter?' Lydia knew about Agent Walker. _EVERY _one knew about Agent Walker, blonde protector of _the Carmichael_, Hero of the Battle of High Sierra. He would have been furiously blushing if he'd heard her thoughts. He was not a hero in his own mind, and was very embarrassed when anyone brought it up. But he was a hero in their minds, where it counted.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 65 days after extraction**

Technicians were preparing a test download of intersect data updates for Chuck. There was some concern in certain circles that the damage to his left eye would corrupt any data acquired by that vision "port" so he was wearing an eye patch. Since he hadn't shaved since the accident and had only recently had all his various facial surgeries completed, he was sporting a neatly trimmed beard compliments of one of his younger nurses. Taken together, his curly hair had grown out; it gave him a rogue look that he thought about keeping.

But for now, he was all business. He talked with some techs about download rates, frequency ranges, and nerd stuff. He was in heaven. Apparently not just his military accomplishments were well known, but also his ability to control intersect data at inception, His throng of Nerd followers grew steadily. He was known again as "the Carmichael", the man who could bend the intersect to his will. Such was the stuff of legends.

The first download module was successful. The tests were complete and data retention was phenomenal. They upgraded to another level, increasing the amount of data as well as the throughput rate. He passed out and awoke vomiting and cursing in Mandarin.

By the end of the day it was determined that retention rates had not degraded but the download and throughput rates would have to be scaled back and done more frequently. For Chuck it meant more frequent downloading but of smaller amounts at lower speeds.

What it really meant was that he could "blow this Popsicle stand" and go home. He hoped.

Unfortunately, Mother Fate had once again pointed her scrawny fickle Finger at one Charles Irving Bartowski.

**Moab UT – NSA Intersect and Medical Facility 66 days after extraction**

"You do know what this means, don't you, Mr. Bartowski?"

"Um, let me guess. I'll be filing a resident Utah tax return for like ever?"

"There is no need to be flippant. It's the only solution to keep the intersect data safe. And since you house the data, then by default, keep you safe. Unless your devious mind can concoct some weirdly improbable but successful plan, yes, it's Moab for life, Mr. Bartowski. I'm truly sorry. I can only applaud your sense of duty in bringing this to light. You could have ignored it or just not mentioned it. You were the only one who could have 'connected the dots' as you say."

"Then there's only one thing left for me to do, General. I have to die. Of injuries sustained in that automobile crash exacerbated by the ambulance incident. I'll leave it to you and your gnomes to come up with the appropriate details and covers. Since my sister and fiancé are in your grasp, er, employment, that will only leave the grieving friends and ex-girlfriends of which I have many of the former and none I care for of the latter. It will work, General. It's perfect. Bartowski exits stage left and Charles Carmichael enters stage right. And NSAW is in business within 2 weeks, not the original 6."

The General let the ex-girlfriends comment pass unremarked. It was an elegant solution. And with the few facial scars, the beard and eye patch and slight limp, he would probably pass unrecognized if he strolled into the BuyMore. He was one crafty son of a bitch.

"I like it. We'll kill you off immediately. I'll involve Marcus Brunner; he'll handle passing the word, casually. It will take off like a grass fire. We'll do the usual newspaper plants and I'm sure your sister and her fiancé can be persuaded to weep and rend their garments considering their employment status." This last was said with a smirk. She was hanging around Casey entirely too much.

"You'll have to change my personal data in the files also. The intersect is secure but the original source data is NSA and therefore unsecure for this high an operational level. Can you do that? It will be the finishing touch."

What prompted this late night conversation was Chuck's discovery of newly downloaded documents intercepted by NSA or CIA operatives containing references to the intersect and one Charles Bartowski. Someone in the spy world had connected the dots linking Casey, Agent Walker and Chuck to the head-on with the drunk and the "package delivery" operation of the late but unlamented Colonel Wu. He felt a moral obligation to report it to General Beckman. But first, knowing her love of deep, dark holes, he made sure he had a plan devised to keep him out of said hole.

**FT Meade, MD NSA Headquarters 69 days after extraction**

It was 3 days later that Jennifer Lynn Burton, newly-minted Analyst, NSA Special Projects, stumbled upon the official obituary of one Charles Irving Bartowski in the NSA Morning Report. It was little more than a footnote appearing in a summary of Intersect Project Reports, reporting the death of an asset at a medical facility in Moab, UT from surgical complications to wounds and injuries incurred during an operation in the High Sierra National Forest in California. No names, just hard, cold, unfeeling facts.

She couldn't believe it. He was fine when she left. He looked fine. Ok, he looked like shit but he was fine. She never would have left him if he were still in danger, never. Orders be damned.

She accessed her terminal and pulled up a summary of the principals involved in the Intersect Project. Casey, John, pending medical retirement; Walker, Sarah, Unknown; Bartowski, Charles I., died of wounds…and a bunch of crap from physicians at the facility. She had to call Ellie. It couldn't be true. Ellie would know the truth. She and Devon were CIA doctors.

She called Ellie Bartowski at 11pm their time. Ellie answered, probably either just waking up or going to sleep depending on her shift.

"Ellie, is it true about Chuck?" No introduction, no hellohowarya crap. Straight and to the point.

She hung up on her. Twice. Finally, "Please, Ellie, please, is it true?" Maybe it was the sobbing, maybe it was the devastation in her voice, and maybe it was Ellie just being Ellie.

"Yes. It's true. Satisfied now?" Silence.

"I know all about you, Sara Walker. I know about your reputation for ruthlessly hounding your mark to accomplish your damned missions. After you left he just slipped away little by little. Until one morning, he was gone. And I wasn't there, Sarah Walker, Jenny Burton, or whoever the hell you are this time. I didn't get to say good-bye. But I will this time. Good-bye. Don't call again."

"There's no one here who has anything to say to you. I buried my little brother this morning, is that final confirmation of your victory, your unbroken string of perfect missions, is that enough confirmation for you?" Silence.

She hung up her cell.

Oh, yeah, Ellie Bartowski had left a mark. She didn't care. She was tired. Momma Bear went to bed. Her little brother was safe from the bitch formerly known as Sarah Walker, former BFF and candidate for bridesmaid in her wedding.

* * *

_**To be continued…**_

~Armor-Plated-Rat~


	24. Moah24 Charrah 2 of ?

Moah24Charrah2of?

_A/N: It would be nice if some of you who have reviewed and commented would actually read the verbiage and not just the dialogue. You miss subtleties and points that explain what you're going to read. For example, there's more than one chapter to the Charrah. Hell, it might be an actual sequel. Thanks to the inedible breakfast food nut for the idea. And as for minor character development, I don't; they come and go, just like real people in our lives. I don't worry about the mailman's cholesterol level, for example. But some of you would suggest I obsess over it. Not going to happen. References are for substance only, not germane to the story. For example, Lydia Barnes mentions her husband and how he and Chuck are examples of why she loves her job. Do I HAVE to explain that the reference suggests her husband was a patient of hers just like Chuck? Does it warrant a mini-vignette? And some expository dialogue re "UNEXPLAINED events appears much later in the story when the circumstances of the event and it's impact on the story warrant it._

**Previously in Moah Charrah Special Epilogue Edition for the sweet & sickening lovers of Charrah**

"No, not reassignment, separation. Your employment contract has been cancelled."

"No, there's no one back there waiting for me. She moved on. Had things to do. Important things. World-saving and shit like that. I guess I was holding her back. Not a problem now, though."

"Ellie, is it true about Chuck?" No introduction, no hellohowarya crap. Straight and to the point.

"Yes. It's true. Satisfied now?"

**Moab, UT NSA facility 81 days after extraction**

He gave Lydia Barnes one of his patented Bartowski smiles and hugged her for the very last time. "Thanks for putting Humpty back together again. I'll miss you."

"Well, Agent Charles Carmichael, don't fall off any more walls. And you'll be able to lose the cane in a month or two at the most. Don't get used to it. It's just temporary. Until you get your sight back in the left eye you're going to have depth perception problems and the cane will help you stabilize yourself if you become dizzy or anything." She didn't know that the chances of sight in his left eye hovered between thin and none.

Lydia wondered once again at the mental stability of the blonde who'd dumped Chuck for what? The glamour of the spy life? From the casualties she'd worked with here, she saw very little glamour, just a lot of pain and loneliness.

Standing on tiptoes, she gave him a quick kiss on his furry cheek and returned to her PT area. John Casey was standing near the elevator, impatiently tapping his watch. "Let's go, Bar…Carmichael. Daylight's burning. We got a plane to catch. Devon and Ellie are meeting us at that poor excuse you have for an airport in Burbank. She's already called 4 times to ask if we'd left yet."

The elevator ride all the way to the top was representative to Chuck of a birth canal. Newly born Agent Charles Carmichael of the NSA popped out of the open elevator into the glass lobby of an office building.

Ta-Da… and cringed when his eye scrunched shut in the bright light of a Utah afternoon. Too bright! He fumbled with his cane trying to retrieve his polarizing sunglasses from his suit coat pocket. He'd look like a dork with a black eye patch and old-fart-just-had-cararact-surgery wrap-around sunglasses but at least he could see.

It had been 79 days since Chuck had seen the sun, felt it's warmth on his skin. He knew now what those poor souls who occupied the lowest level of the facility craved the most. And thanked God once again that he'd escaped joining them.

The flight to Burbank was uneventful. Flying in government planes would spoil Chuck if he ever had to fly with the great unwashed. The landed at Burbank Executive Airpark and he had hardly reached the tarmac when he was assaulted and nearly knocked to the ground by a laughing and crying Ellie Bartowski. Once again he experienced the punishment of Ellie-joy – and he loved it. He was home.

**Los Angeles, CA Wiltshire Blvd Unopened Office of Argent Security Corp.**

"Don't you think it's a little ostentatious, for a start-up company? We don't even have our first client yet and this place must cost mega-bucks a month. And why do we need an _entire floor_ again?" Chuck was having a deep discussion with John Casey regarding their new corporate office.

"The General decided on the location based on _your _requirements. As for clients, that's your job. The rent doesn't matter. We'll never see the bill. Uncle Sam will handle all of it. You just get out your list and make sure everything we'll need is on it. I don't want to find we let some little detail slip, like office furniture."

Chuck blushed. They were standing in the conference room since there were no chairs, no conference room table, no white boards. One of the little things he forgot to put on his wish list.

John Casey reached out and grabbed Chuck's arm to steady him. "Dizzy again? You tell the doc?" He wouldn't admit under torture but he was fast considering Chuck a friend. And it didn't bother him a bit that Chuck outranked him. Was in fact, his supervisor.

He worried about the younger man. He still wasn't 100% and the General had pushed him out of the facility before he was really ready. He'd heard the session between the medical staff and the General. They wanted to keep him at least another month but the General was adamant.

"NO. Absolutely not. He has an operation to assemble. And he can't do it from a hole in the ground." She never considered how inappropriate her comment was. She'd been prepared to leave Chuck in that particular 'hole in the ground' indefinitely until the canny bastard had come up with NSAW. The government did truly love its acronyms.

"Hell, no, Casey. You think I want Ellie all over me again? It's bad enough I have to get weighed and measured weekly, that my diet is planned, prepared and delivered to the hotel by the NSA and I get to eat all that yummy yuppy-larva crap under your watchful eye."

Casey loved it when he could twist Chuck's tale and get a real rise out of him. Gone was the awkward nerd with the funny hair. He'd matured, grown up, become a man of great potential but he still whined like a little girl sometimes. And Casey loved pointing out those times. Besides, he'd been dangerously under weight when he'd been spat out of the Moab facility. Stress, physical therapy, emotional turmoil had killed his appetite and no one had seen it until he'd dressed to go topside.

NSA had bought his suit according to sizes they'd found in his closet. When he got dressed in Moab, the clothes hung on him. The shirt collar was 2 sizes too big; the pants would have slid off his hips if not for a belt tightened to the tightest notch. He was still dangerously thin. And it worried Casey that he wasn't gaining weight on the NSA diet. Maybe he should slip him some Red Bulls or something.

"Yeah, well, you were the one starving yourself on unrequited love. Get a grip, Bar…, shit, Carmichael. You were going to end up back in the hospital diagnosed with some teenaged eating disorder. Man up and eat your veggies. And drink that Ensure crap. I can hear the wind whistling through your ribs. You lost 40 pounds, that was a dangerous drop for anyone. So quit your bitching and be glad you're not back in Utah."

"Enough, Major Casey. I get it. I don't need to hear the history of my problems. I get the message. Now, I want this list of stuff in here by tomorrow. The phones are being installed and the SPIF needs to be defined so the tech weenies can work their magic. You, my friend, have still not defined the armory area nor given me your list of lethal toys you want to stock. And surveillance equipment and cars and…"

"Ok, boss, I give. I give. Let's go to Mickey D's and eat a coronary burger. You can skip the sprouts at dinner if you do. And remember to keep your coat on this time. I thought the clerk at Arby's was going for the silent alarm when she saw that cannon of yours. Sometimes I wish Marcus had just left it in the Mercedes."

From Chuck's reaction, he knew the 'unrequited love' comment had hit home a little too hard. He'd have to watch it in the future. It was still an open wound. A raw, exposed, freshly salted wound. Ellie had told Casey about Walker's call but not Chuck. He didn't blame Ellie one damned bit. He would not have been half as kind. What kind of game was Walker playing? Well, maybe his 'death' would end her quest for fixes of Bartowski angst. He hoped she was pleased with herself. He'd almost died and then she almost kills him by leaving.

Well, Chuck better be on his best behavior on Thursday. His staff was arriving and he wanted the kid to make a killer first impression. Little did he know that some of the staff were already abuzz with the opportunities of working with _The Carmichael_, the Hero of High Sierra. The NSA was like a ladies' tea party sometimes. Gossip abounded.

And he had to get Chuck to the barber. His gray needed touching up. Another part of his disguise. The beard, limp, eye patch and cane. No one would have recognized Chuck Bartowski. And that was the whole purpose of it. Misdirection.

**FT Meade MD NSA Headquarters**.

Jennifer Burton was bored. She'd already run the Morning Report, handled the General's routine requests for intel support and was finally to the point of delving in to the mysterious NSAW facility she'd seen mentioned in some confidential documents given to her to review. She'd asked the General about it. Weird. She'd pronounced it EN-SAW and said there'd be an EN-SAS and EN-CENT coming on-line soon if the California facility proved it worth. She missed California. She missed… NO! She would not let her thoughts wander to forbidden territory.

She'd already started to reinvent herself. After a particularly hot and steamy dream about her and…'go on, say his name, _Chuck_' her unconscious provided, she'd awakened in tears, grabbed some scissors and hacked off the long tresses he'd been so fond of. Then she drove to an all-night pharmacy and got some Preference and became a brunette. The curtains now matched the drapes.

Rumors abounded about the new Assistant Deputy Director Burton. How she'd appeared overnight in a newly created position. How she had been seen dining with General Beckman sparking rumors that she was the General's lesbian lover. The fact that she'd spurned all the men who had approached her fed the fire. She didn't give a shit what anyone thought. She didn't give a shit about anything but the job. It was all she had left. She'd sacrificed her one true love for the job. She might as well give it her soul.

General Diane Beckman smiled when she saw Burton's hacked hair and new hair color. She'd been extremely circumspect regarding ENSAW. No sense giving her a trail of bread crumbs to follow. Let her stew in her juices and work for it. He deserved nothing less. Not for the first time did she wonder how Chuck Bartowski had wormed his way into her heart. A mother's heart. The son she never had.

She'd taken his advice to heart and finally forgiven herself for the loss of her fiancé in the Iranian desert. Now if Jennifer Burton would only get her shit together and start connecting the dots she'd be able to repay her debt.

**Los Angeles, CA Wiltshire Blvd Unopened Office of Argent Security Corp. Thursday Morning**

The office furniture had been delivered and set up complete with office supplies, the armory was fully replete with lethality, the SPIF was being finalized and the phones were working. Computers were hooked up and in place. The NSA was quick and efficient if nothing else.

And Chuck had an administrative assistant. Casey picked her. A short young red head with a dynamite figure and a totally professional attitude as well as a degree from Stanford in double-E. Casey must have been watching Chuck's old X-Files tapes. They'd disappeared and Casey still held on to his old VCR. Old school.

The elevator dinged and the first contingent of NSA agents arrived. They were greeted by Angie Fuentes, Chuck's new AA and given briefing packages and told to wait in the conference room. Chuck ambled out of his office and down the hall planning on greeting the new arrivals and saw he was too late with the first group.

The elevator dinged and another gaggle of agents poured out. The last two to get off the elevator caught Chuck's attention and he flashed. Derrick Soames and Jamal O'Reilly. Fulcrum!

Chuck's .45 cleared his shoulder rig and the sound of a round being jacked into the chamber stopped all the new arrivals dead in their tracks. The two Fulcrum agents knew they'd been made but not how. It didn't matter. Their training kicked in and they moved to the left and right, also attempting to draw their weapons.

Four shots, two each to the head. Two Fulcrum traitors down.

Casey came running down the hallway from the armory area, weapon in hand and stopped dead. Chuck stood in a classic Weaver stance that damned cannon of his covering the remaining new arrivals. Angie Fuentes had a cut-down 9mm Glock and was backing up her boss. There was a scuffling sound in the conference rooms and two of the new agents came out with a 3rd restrained between them. "He pulled his weapon, Director, figured he was up to no good."

"Damn, Chuck, we could have interrogated them. Now we won't know who sent them. Next time leave a prisoner or two, will ya?" Actually, he was pleased. The old Chuck would have probably pissed his pants or passed out.

"Miss Fuentes, thanks for the back-up. But just where do you keep your weapon?" She knew it was an honest question, not some double-entendre. She blushed, damning her Irish roots.

"Um, it's Mrs. Fuentes, Director, and wouldn't you like to know?" Chuck let out a chuckle. He'd have to watch this one. Agents her age were rarely married. Oh, well, not his problem.

"OK, show's over. You two go with Casey and put that one in detention. Mrs. Fuentes, would you call FT Meade and give them a sitrep? And request a cleaner crew ASAP".

"The rest of you, I guess this is the orientation period for National Security Agency – West. I'm Director…" and showed them all to the conference room to complete the meet and greet. Someone else would do the in-processing. He had questions to ask General Beckman.

**FT Meade MD NSA Headquarters**

"So, General, it would appear that Fulcrum has infiltrated far deeper than we thought. I spotted the two Fulcrum agents as they got off the elevator but the 3rd drew a blank. A new recruit or just missing from the intersect update?"

"I don't know but I'll find out. From now on I want our conferences to be without video. I don't want to risk someone accidentally connecting the intersect with NSA-W. I'll want a full report via secure means on my desk in the morning. Good work, Director Carmichael. I'll advise when I have something on the 3rd Fulcrum infiltrator.

* * *

"Well, Casey, what do you think? Is the intersect compromised already or was this just an attempt to infiltrate our new facility?"

"Don't know, Chuck. Haven't really thought about much more than cleaning up the mess and finalizing the in-processing of the new agents. But I can tell you one thing for certain – you scared the crap out of those newbies."

They both shared a laugh over that. "What do you know about Fuentes? She's married? Rare for an agent so young. Why'd you pick her?" 'What are you up to, Casey? You picked up a shooter as my AA?' thought Chuck. Curious.

"Divorced. Her ex is a career asshole, works down in San Diego with the Border Patrol. She hasn't seen him in a year or more. Divorce was uncontested. She didn't want alimony and there's no kids. No community property. She finished her degree and applied to the Agency. Did some standard intel work and moved back west due to family sickness. Her folks are from Ireland, don't let the "Fuentes" fool you."

"Well, she has some smooth moves with that Glock of hers." 'And I still would like to know where she carries it.'

**FT Meade MD NSA Headquarters**

Jenny Burton read through the daily summaries. The NSA-W incident raised a red flag. Fulcrum was trying to infiltrate with the initial complement of agents? Ballsy. Still, a shoot-out on your first day on the job would certainly give the more timid ones pause. She looked for the name of the AIC (Agent in Charge) who filed the report but it was missing. Mentally making a note to follow up on NSA-W, she looked at her watch and swore. She was late for her damned session.

**FT Meade MD NSA – Medical Unit**

"Sorry I'm late. Got wrapped up in some report summaries." Jenny Burton hated psych counseling with a passion but it had been a contingency of employment. 'Miss Walker, if you come to work for me, you'll have to exorcise those demons. PTSD is nothing to be ashamed of, but something that can't be ignored. The CIA pukes did you no favors by allowing you to serve in the field with acute PTSD.'

"No problem, Director Burton. Now, last time we were talking about your relationship with Bryce, specifically the 'We'll always have Omaha" incident. Let's continue on from there. Why didn't you leave with Bryce? It certainly offered more of a challenge for someone of your qualifications than babysitting a spoiled computer geek."

He never saw her hand move. Not even a blur. But a knife appeared in the paneling 1 inch from his ear with a "thunk" that was the only sound in the room for a long time.

_Now we're making progress!_

She talked for 2 hours. Cried for 15 minutes and then talked for another 2 hours. There was no time limit on these sessions. Not like civilian shrinks who worked a 50-minute hour.

"And I just couldn't answer his question. I didn't know who I was. I wasn't sure then but I'm sure now. I am Jenny Burton. And I loved Chuck Bartowski. I still love Chuck Bartowski. I always will. I'll never love anyone again because I'm not through loving him in this life. He gave me time and space and I wasted my time. I chose the job over him. I killed him just as surely as if I'd pulled the trigger on him, cut his throat, whatever. And he died alone, with strangers, not even his family there to support him."

"And me? He was right. I was a con artist. I became whoever I needed to be to accomplish my mission. A perfect score. I killed them all, every one of them. I never failed, God how I wish I'd failed that final time. I miss him. I need him. He is my other half and … and" but she could not go on.

The therapist tossed a new box of tissues to her. She'd gone through the first box.

"So now you've reconciled yourself to being alone for the rest of your life. Your continued avoidance of personal commitment is common with PTSD. I want you to think about what he said when you were both on the chopper after the firefight." He consulted his notes. "He said 'I'm broken. Aren't we a pair.' And you said nothing in response. But what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I was broken too and that he would heal me. We would heal each other. I really believed that. I still believe that. And I always will. I wouldn't be here if he'd survived, if I hadn't been a coward and had just answered his fucking question. I am Jenny Burton, Chuck, Jenny Burton and I'll always love you."

"But I didn't and he isn't. Can we call it quits for today? I don't think this is doing much good." So they scheduled another session for the next afternoon. He didn't plan on letting her lose what she'd gained today to time.

"Of course. Here."

A knife appeared with a 'thunk' buried 2 inches into the decorative molding of the arm of the chair she was sitting in. She smiled. "Thanks."

_**To be continued… repeat… To be continued. Not the last chapter. Don't send me emails saying 'how could you end the story without getting them back together?' Please?**_

_**~Armor-Plated-Rat~**_


	25. Moah25 Charrah 3 of 4

Moah25Charrah3of

Previously

The CIA pukes did you no favors by allowing you to serve in the field with acute PTSD

"I wouldn't be here if he'd survived, if I hadn't been a coward and had just answered his fucking question".

FT Meade, MD NSA Headquarters

"Yes, General I understand what you're saying. I just don't agree. I think it's a mistake to allow this young woman to continue to believe that her "Chuck" is dead. You are being unnecessarily cruel, even for you."

"Be that as it may, I've made my decision. She stays in the dark regarding Charles Carmichael until I decide the time is appropriate. Don't worry, Doctor, it will all come out in the wash. Keep the sessions up as long as you can. She still has a lot to learn about herself and it's really not time for her to resume her role in this. But I want her ready to go, psychologically, as soon as possible. But I want her also ready to go emotionally and professionally. He doesn't need a cripple, a barnacle, he needs a true partner whose skills will complement _and _supplement his own."

**Los Angeles CA Hotel Suite**

The NSA put Chuck and Casey in adjoining rooms of a 'suite'. Chuck suspected it was so Casey could be at his side in an instant if the situation demanded it. Chuck also suspected it was to make sure he ate all this disgusting yuppie food the NSA dietician had prepared and sent over daily. Why couldn't he just eat at Mickey Dee's or the Subway or a normal restaurant. He hadn't been in an Arby's in ages. He missed real food.

Ok, that was a lie. Sort of. He really did miss decent food, well, his definition of decent. No, he missed her. Every time he saw a tall blonde with long hair he watched, hoping… well, hoping for something that was not going to happen. With his luck the next time he saw Walker or Burton would be on a mission with her screwing the ears off her latest mark.

He thought about Angie Fuentes. Nope, don't go there Chuck. Sexual harassment, inappropriate activities with a subordinate… not good at all. So not awesome. Speaking of Awesome, he and Ellie were having problems. Apparently some nights Ellie slept in _his_ room. He had no idea why. Neither did Devon. So he was planning on sliding over to Casa Bartowski and having dinner with his sister and Devon later in the week. He'd have to be really circumspect about the whole thing. It wouldn't do to have Morgan show up.

Morgan. He had taken his death hard and his reaction was threatening his relationship with that sexy little kung fu princess, Anna Wu. Wonder what he could do about that? Nothing. _Collateral damage_.

He picked at his food. It was utterly disgusting. He would find out who the NSA dietician was through the intersect, find her home, B&E and ravage her refrigerator. He would bet he'd find friggin' Twinkies and frozen pizza, not this disgusting, tasteless cardboard crap. Tofu? Who the hell ate Tofu. He wanted a steak, baked potato, lots of sour cream, bacon bits and chives and … but he picked at his tuna casserole, pushed his salad around, but balked at his decaffeinated ice tea. That was the last straw.

"Casey, Casey, I know you're in there. Open this fucking door!" Chuck's fist hit the door with every word.

John Casey opened the door with pistol in hand. "What the fuck is your problem, Chuck?"

Chuck looked over Casey's shoulder. Ah ha! "I thought I smelled steak and baked potato. And you'e making me eat friggin' Tofu? I ought to shoot you and take your dinner. But instead, I'm telling you I'm going out. To eat. Some real food. Don't try and stop me either. I'm armed and dangerously hungry…"

John Casey just smiled. Chuck was back. And hungry. He'd call the NSA dietician and tell her the good news tomorrow.

"OK, go ahead. You're a big boy. Just don't forget to take your cane and keep your coat on." and closed the door on a surprised Chuck.

He walked up the street. There was a Johnny's a couple of blocks up. He'd enjoy the evening air and just walk. It was good exercise and he'd promised Lydia he'd keep on his feet and walk as often as possible. Damned limp slowed him down though. But if he exercised and didn't screw up he'd be back to normal in a year or so. Normal. What a joke. He no longer knew what 'normal' was.

He was deep in thought, standing at a cross walk waiting for the light to change when he heard "Director" shouted from a slowly passing car. He looked up and saw a red Miata, top down, slowing down. Unconsciously he'd reached for the butt of his pistol but stopped when he saw who was driving. Angie Fuentes.

"Need a lift, Director. Any place I can drop you?" She'd changed clothes. He almost didn't recognize her.

"Just walking up to Johnny's. Tired of room service Tofu and that crap I have to eat to keep Casey off my ass." He unconsciously blushed at his use of "ass". "Sorry, butt, off my butt."

Angie Fuentes had a delightful laugh. It was full and rich and not forced. No demure giggling for this woman. Nope. A full laugh. "Well, it's your lucky night. That's where I'm headed. I wouldn't mind the company if you didn't. Unless you're meeting someone or …"

"NO, no, that would be nice." **_Danger _**_Will Robinson_**_ Danger_**… thoughts of lawsuits and crap…left Chuck's mind when she pushed open the door and beckoned. She was wearing the shortest shorts he'd seen in, well, ever. And he was a guy. And he was…" "You coming, Director?" smiling. Like she could read his mind. 'God, I hope not' thought Chuck.

Dinner was nice. It had been a long time since he'd spent time with anyone interested in something not related to the NSA and the fucking intersect. They talked about some of the professors still teaching at Stanford from Chuck's era. The changes in the school. They talked about nothing special but to Chuck it was all special. He'd been lonely and just needed someone nonjudgmental to talk with. Someone who didn't know Chuck Bartowski and his long tale of woe. Someone his own age with normal everyday interests in a non-spy world. He thoroughly enjoyed his time with Angie Fuentes.

When she dropped him off at his hotel it was after 1am and Casey was livid.

"Where have you been? You didn't take your cell. You didn't take your watch. I was almost ready to call Beckman. Chuck, you're a Deputy Director for Intelligence now. You can _never_ be out of contact. Ever. I would have called Beckman, too. Believe me. Walker didn't."

"Sorry. You're right. I wasn't thinking. We got to talking and I guess I lost track of the time. I didn't walk back, she gave me a lift. Won't happen again, Casey. 'Night" and closed the door in Casey's face.

Casey was stunned. '_She gave me a lift'? _Who the hell was 'she'?

Chuck let Casey's comment slide. He knew he'd screwed up. He should have taken his cell and watch. But what did he mean 'Walker didn't?'

**Los Angeles, CA Office of Argent Security Corp. **

"Casey, it's no big deal. I used to go to these things all the time back when … well, back then. You never used to be such a studda bubba about such things. Honestly, it's no big deal. Go in, flash the folks, relay them to you and get out. Piece of cake. It's important we take down this sleeper cell group. And this is the only way to identify the primaries of the 3 lead cells. Everything else is mere follow up."

"Chuck, it's more complicated than that. You don't have real agent training. You suck at hand-to-hand, you've been really lucky with your handgun and you're not really 100% back to your old self. You still use a cane. You still get dizzy spells. You can't go in there alone, Chuck. It's not safe. It's not smart. Don't be such an ass and try to prove you're as capable as she… as capable as a regular agent. Rule #1, Director. You always need a partner. "

Chuck knew John Casey was absolutely right. He needed a partner. Someone to watch his back. And he couldn't attend a Charity event with Casey as his date. Well, OK, he could do that in L.A. and San Francisco but the people they were after were homophobes, haters. They wouldn't be caught dead in the same room with a gay couple. So, it was Chuck and a female. That was it. Casey couldn't flash. He could. End of mental debate. Chuck won.

"Rule #2, Casey. The Director is always right."

He looked out the door of his office. Angie Fuentes sat at her desk cleaning her Glock. 'Where _did _she keep that cannon?'

"Mrs. Fuentes, do you have plans for this evening?" Chuck smiled that killer smile that Sa… NO, do not go there. He smiled his killer smile, anyway.

**Palos Verde Peninsula – Home of Victor and Selena Rinaldi**

Casey drove the Mercedes limo up to the galleried staircase leading to one of the most opulent homes on the PVP. He stopped and watched the red-coated flunkies fall all over themselves opening the door.

Chuck got out first, a real chore with his cane and a risk of falling since his dizzy spells came most frequently after riding in a car or long periods standing. The docs hadn't figures that one out yet. Standing upright, he offered his hand to Angie Fuentes.

Instead of the short redhead in her 2-inch heels, out stepped a sleek diminutive lynx in a black dress that looked like she'd taken a black dress pill and sweated it on. It had no back and a slit up the side so high that Chuck was sure she was absolutely naked underneath. And although she assured him she had her Glock with her, he _still_ couldn't figure out where she hid the damned thing. And she looked absolutely stunning. Perfect makeup and hair and sandals with 4-inch heels. Utterly stunning. And the NSA had kindly supplied a king's ransom in emeralds to go with her dress and hair. Chuck was entranced, tongue-tied and feeling guilty. Like he was cheating on someone. Well, no one who cared, that was for damned sure.

Angie Fuentes was out of her element. Give her a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops, hair under a Dodger's cap and she was at home. But this dress (or lack of) was more (or less) than she'd ever worn before. And the sandals. She hated strappy heels. So not her.

"Relax, Angie, you look beautiful and no one here can hold a candle to you. Just relax and be yourself. I'm Charles and you're Angelina. Two people out on the town. Remember, be yourself and you'll do fine. Just follow my lead if we get in trouble. If I use the code word we agreed on, abort and make your way to the limo. Casey will have my back if the shit hits the fan."

He felt comfortable, more than any time since, well, in a long time. He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the palm, just like young lovers. All part of the cover. (Yeah, Chuck. A cover. Keep telling yourself that. She's getting to you and you're letting it happen).

Angie Fuentes knew that Chuck was wrong, Code word situation or not, _she_ would have his back.

Chuck handed the flunky their invitations and together they entered the large drawing room full of the Beautiful People of Hollywood. It looked like an A-List party. Good. Maybe make some contacts for the business.

He turned to his left and flashed. Achmed Khalid, Hamas weapons procurement specialist. He raised his cuff mike and reported it to Casey. He leaned over to whisper in Angie's ear. "Hamas, 9 o'clock, long greasy hair and Armani tux out of a 50s Bogart movie. Photo".

She laughed and lifted her purse as if to shield them from prying eyes in their conversation. The purse contained a micro-camera and Casey logged the image. She had to admit this was going well. She was very nervous at first about going with the Director but things were progressing nicely. He'd been very complimentary of her appearance. That had worried her. His approval was suddenly very important to her. 'Angie Gillespie, do not fall for the boss. Career killer.'

They identified 4 other Middle Eastern cell members over the course of the next hour and a half as well as a host of lesser players including at least one Mossad agent who had better have a good reason to be in the U.S. without the NSA knowing about it.

This guy Victor Rinaldi would bear watching in the future. He had dangerous friends.

They were preparing to leave when Selena Rinaldi approached and introduced herself and commented on the emerald necklace and earrings. She didn't stop talking for the next 10 minutes. Chuck had been standing for two hours and his leg was beginning to bother him. And when that happened, a dizzy spell could sneak up on him. If that happened here, it could draw unwanted attention to him and his date for the evening.

She'd been watching him. Saw he was tiring and knew from Casey's briefing that the Director was still not fully recovered from his injuries (Casey would not go into detail, simply stated "need to know") and prone to the sudden onset of dizziness. She was still holding his hand as the overdressed woman went on and on about nothing at all. His palm was damp and she knew this was a precursor to his vertigo. She palmed the clasp of her purse sending Major Casey the distress signal they'd agreed upon should this occasion arise. The Director would not approve, but it was not his decision. She was his protective detail, even if he didn't know. And she had gone to great lengths to ensure he didn't.

Almost instantly Chuck's cell phone vibrated. Chuck apologized to Mrs. Rinaldi, "Sorry, business, I have to take this call" and used the need for privacy to leave the home. The limo was waiting and Casey was holding the door. Chuck ushered Angie in and almost fell into the limo. They'd just barely avoided a scene that might draw unwanted eyes.

Angie was worried. "Major Casey, what can I do? Director, are you alright?" She was very concerned. She'd never seen one of his spells.

"He'll be fine, Mrs. Fuentes. He just needs to rest his leg a bit. He'll sleep until we're back at headquarters."

"_He_ is right here, y'know?" Chuck wasn't angry. He just didn't want to appear weak in front of Angie Fuentes. No, dammit, Chuck, Mrs. Fuentes…

Casey had been on the horn. NSA, FBI and local police were alerted and as those 'selected' at party departed they were followed to their destinations and arrested. The Mossad agent was less than cordial about accompanying 2 FBI agents to their headquarters but knew enough to keep quiet. Israel could always explain away monitoring terrorist activities.

**Los Angeles, CA Office of Argent Security Corp. **

"So, Director, a very successful operation. Very successful. Congratulations on NSA-W's first victory. Four major cell leaders and a host of arms dealers and smugglers and an Israeli agent taken into custody. And no casualties, no problems, and best of all, they didn't have a clue how they were identified. Excellent work. I think an infusion of additional cadre and support personnel is warranted in the near future. You've only just begun. A very auspicious start for your team and proof that the distributive network of NSA centers throughout the continental US will increase our effectiveness."

"Director Carmichael, a word in private, please." General Beckman was very pleased with the operation, especially with the coordination of non-NSA agencies and law enforcement.

Chuck gave Casey the "I'll see you later" look and he closed the door to the office as he left. Casey was happy, well, as happy as John Casey ever really allowed himself to be. The op was a smashing success and the use of non-NSA agencies to actually handle the arrests was brilliant. Those pussies now owed the NSA for the busts and the bad guys had no idea that one agency had ID'd them all. The General had given Chuck his due. That was for sure.

"So, Chuck, you're looking better than the last time I saw you." Apparently the General's proscription against video did not apply when _she_ wanted to eyeball something – or someone.

"Well, what can I say, General, the afternoons at the beach, parties, weekends in the mountains, just what the doctor ordered. Really, I feel a lot better than I did a month ago. Was there anything in particular you wanted to discuss without Major Casey around?"

"I see your sarcasm bone is intact. But actually I wanted to inform you that you'll be getting a new Assistant Deputy Director soon to handle the analysis of intel gathered from the intersect and our other more mundane sources such as satellite and SigInt. And all, I repeat, all the staff are NSA. No CIA pukes or other agencies are involved. And these agents have been thoroughly vetted. No Fulcrum infiltrators. I promise you that. This is a pure NSA operation." General Beckman was not above petty turf politics, it seemed.

"Send me their files and photos and I'll review them after tomorrow's intersect update. I have to admit, smaller, more frequent updates are far superior to the old 'data dump' you guys used to use. Less painful, too." The last was said with a grin and a wink.

"Why don't we just incorporate the files on the new agents in the down load? No sense offering any opportunity for compromise. And how is the SPIF coming? Will it be ready as scheduled? These new agents and their equipment will require the special shielding to be in place before they can begin their operations."

"General, good idea. Merge the files for down load. And the SPIF is coming along nicely. We're 'borrowing' some of the lessons learned at the SAC Cyber Center at Barksdale AFB to avoid reinventing the wheel. We'll be on schedule and on-line on time." 'Damn, Chuck way too many 'on's'.

"Great. But Chuck, how are _you _doing? Major Casey's report on the PVP operation said you'd had another attack of vertigo. If your assistant hadn't sent the e-code to Major Casey it could have been… awkward."

E-code? What the hell was she talking about? John Casey had called him to report that the players were in place and to wrap up the operation. Wait, why didn't he just transmit over the earwig? Damn Casey. Something was up and the General had just been sloppy. Not like her at all. His _assistant_ sent the e-code?

Diane Beckman knew she'd stepped in a large pile of warm fecal matter. She should never have mentioned the e-code. Dumb, Diane. Stupid. A virgin agent mistake.

Chuck's demeanor changed. Like a cold wind rippling wheat stalks, she could see him set up his defenses as his mind analyzed this new information. He was like a pit bull when presented with a mystery. He wouldn't let go.

"General, the matter was resolved without any untoward incident. I don't consider it worthy of your time or mine. Was there anything else, Ma'am?"

"No, Director Carmichael. That will be all."

Diane Beckman terminated the video conference. She'd screwed the pooch big-time. She'd just have to be more careful in the future. Chuck Bartowski was not one of the usual run-of-the-mill agents and directors she dealt with. He was at the top of his game and head and shoulders above his nearest competitor. She'd better keep that in mind. Also, _Bartowski_ was dead. It was Carmichael. Maybe she should delegate the more mundane duties to one of her subordinates. Maybe she was getting too old for this shit.

**FT Meade, MD NSA Headquarters**

Jennifer Burton was amazed at the quality and volume of intel originating from the NSA-W. And the General had indicated that NSA-South and NSA-Cent were in the wings. It was nothing short of incredible. And she was soon to be posted to the NSA-W as Assistant Deputy Director for Intel. A meet and greet had been scheduled for later in the month. The security chief of the facility was John Casey. That might prove awkward for her. She had no doubt about his feelings for her. No doubt at all.

_"You turn your back on the kid and try going back to the way things were in the early days after all you've put him through and I guarantee you'll have a new assignment within 10 minutes of my phone call to Beckman. And it won't be in the field either. The field is no place for a coward. No partner will ever trust you again. You won't deserve it."_

She didn't exactly turn her back on… on… him. No. She just needed more time to…well, Casey had made good on his promise. He'd made the call shortly after they'd arrived in Moab. After she'd told Chuck Bartowski she couldn't decide if she was Sarah or Jenny. And it was not a field assignment and she had no partner. But she did have a new direction. _That _she did deserve.

She was frustrated. She still could not find anything at all about the Director of NSA-W. Not his name, not his rating, no history at all. There were some vague notations regarding special medical requirements, special dietary regimen and physical therapy schedules. But all further entries halted abruptly. Almost like someone realized that the information could lead a spy to… to what? The secret identity of the mysterious superhero agent who ran NSA-W? She reviewed the staff assigned currently to NSA-W.

She found the first red flag after noting that the Deputy Director's Administrative Assistant had been a deep-cover operative investigating weapons smuggling on the Mexican border. Apparently the operation was a success and several US Border Patrol and Customs agents had been identified and arrested for weapons and drug smuggling. She'd even uncovered a plot to move bio-weapon components into the United States for distribution to terrorist networks for possible manufacture of bio-weapons.

What was she doing as an Admin Assistant?

The second red flag was a notation that she had attended a special course of instruction conducted by the Secret Service for those agents who might be assigned to the protective detail of a government official. She was someone's protective detail!

The General didn't even have a protective detail any longer. Not after the Praetorian debacle. She had a chauffeur and 2 NSA shooters who accompanied her. But she was a Director. This guy was a Deputy Director. Why would he require a bodyguard? It's not like he went on ops or was an asset…?

She pulled up the file on Angelina Gillespie Fuentes. Pretty. Red hair, well auburn actually. . At least not a damned brunette. High marks. Excellents on all her ratings. Divorced. Ex-husband on US Border Patrol arrested for… Well, that explained the divorce. Deep cover? Shit, she _married_ her mark.

Her mind was going a mile a minute. Casey was security chief of a new installation. He'd been a burn-out, on his way to retirement and now he landed a critical position as security chief of NSA-W? You don't put burn outs into positions of such incredible responsibility. You put top agents, loyal and trustworthy. You put in people you know, people you can trust because you've had experience with them. So who trusted Casey enough to put him in this position? And she didn't mean General Beckman. It had to be someone local. The new director?

She got out a legal pad and started making notes. A timeline of sorts. She started with her assignment to the intersect. Two years until that dreadful accident in Fulton County, CA. Ninety-five days later Ellie Bartowski confirmed her brother's death. _"I buried my little brother this morning…"_

Less than a month later, NSA-W comes on-line. And begins feeding intel out into the system. And achieving spectacular results almost as if someone was connecting the dots… _son of a bitch!_

OK, time to get devious. Start looking at the problem from a different perspective.

She went back and did a query on medical staff at the Moab UT facility. Ah, there she was. The doctor who'd hit on her Chuck and thought she coul… NO, don't go there. Don't even think about… focus. Focus.

She pulled up the personnel file on Dr. Jennifer Dupree and dialed her office number. Her secretary answered and said that she was with a patient but would return her call immediately upon completion of the treatment. Not more than 20 minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Dupree returned the NSA's call. No, the patient's surgeries went smoothly from a purely technical standpoint but the patient's vision could not be restored fully or even satisfactorily because of nerve damage. The date of the final treatment? Jenny Burton wrote down the date. _Son of a BITCH!_

She'd connected the dots.

**Burbank, CA Casa Bartowski**

Chuck felt like a stranger. He took a cab from his hotel to another hotel. He went in and called for another cab to pick him up. Once in Burbank he changed cabs again. He could just have asked Casey to drive him but he wanted to do this on his own, without the trappings of office. He was wearing a business suit and had his trusty cane and cannon. After all, he was going home. No need for the entourage.

He went to knock on his own door. Well, not his anymore. Theirs. Chuck Bartowski was dead. He'd never come home, never eat Fruit Loops and watch TV, never have to worry about Sarah Walker doing the cover girlfriend thing. That man was dead.

For all the recent success in his life, Charles Carmichael might as well be dead. He had no one to share it with. His sister had pulled away, not maliciously, just maintaining a distance from the stranger who was Charles Carmichael. And Devon had tried, really tried to keep the "Bro" thing going, but they lived separate lives now. And he would be a stranger in his own home.

So he turned and left. Called Casey and said he was coming back and not to worry. He had thinking to do. He'd take his 'cab roulette' getting home. What a joke. Home was where the heart was. And he had no home. Did that mean he had no heart either? Didn't feel like he did. In point of fact, he didn't _feel _anything anymore.

He paid no attention at all to the red Miata that had follow him to Burbank and would follow him back to his hotel. He was never alone, he just didn't know it.

He called Devon and made his apologies. Told him something had come up and he couldn't make it. Sorry. Promises. Idle chit chat. His life was like one hand clapping.

**FT Meade, MD NSA Headquarters**

She made a routine appointment with General Beckman to go over some legitimate items on the Daily Summary. She'd been professional, polished, sharp and to the point. Her questions were insightful and she filed the answers for further integration. She also updated the General on her team of analysts. They were ready to relocate as planned. But she had one final question.

"Why?"

"I beg your pardon, Jenny? Why what?" General Beckman had a feeling it had come to a head. But was she ready to deal with the truth?

"Why did you tell me he was dead? What could you possibly gain from this? His _own sister_ told me he was dead. Said she'd buried her little brother and was I finally satisfied? Why would she do that? What kind of people _are_ you?"

"Let me tell you a story, Jenny…" and the General told her about Chuck discovering the information linking Chuck Bartowski directly to the intersect. She told her how he'd devised a plan to avoid being bunkered, how he'd decided that Chuck Bartowski had to die, succumb to injuries during surgery. And how he'd developed the concept of distributive intelligence centers operating redundantly to the FT Meade facility.

She told her about the difficulties in downloading updates to the intersect and how he'd solved the problem with smaller, more frequent updates but how his physical condition continued to deteriorate to the point that his protective detail was constantly in touch with medical personnel whenever he was on a mission.

Finally, she outlined the organizational structure for the NSA-W and how she, Jennifer Burton, would head the Analysis section reporting to her directly on paper but to the Director in reality.

And then she dropped her bombshell. "You see, if your counseling sessions hadn't progressed so quickly and so far, if you hadn't made those breakthroughs, you never would have been considered for the position. Personal feelings aside, I would not have an operation jeopardized by unstable personalities trying to work together. It didn't work in the past, and it certainly wouldn't work in the here and now."

"I won't kid you. Sarah Walker did a number on Chuck Bartowski. And Jenny Burton almost finished him off. His emotional stability is fragile but he's coping better than anyone could expect. But he's lost, Jenny. Alone. Mrs. Fuentes reported that he got so far as the door of his old home and turned around without seeing his family. He has made decisions for the greater good and has paid a terrible price both physically and emotionally."

"So I'm asking you to answer the question Chuck Bartowski asked you so long ago… Who…are _you? _ He's still broken. Are you still a pair? Or can you fix him, Jenny?"

**Los Angeles, CA Office of Argent Security Corp. 3 days later**

John Casey was not a happy camper. He'd just been advised by General Beckman that the new Assistant Deputy Director for Analysis was arriving with her staff of analysts to assume her position in NSA-W on Monday. And that Jennifer Lynn Burton was her name. No, he was not happy at all.

He didn't understand the General's apparent confidence that the situation would _resolve itself favorably_. Was that double-speak for what ever happens we'll just say it's how we want things to be? Well, he'd find out Monday morning. He hoped Chuck had a relaxing weekend planned. It would probably be the last peace he'd know for some time.

Deputy Director NSA-W Carmichael had just had a refresher download from the intersect. No pain at all. Just a slight sense of knowing something that he didn't. This had never happened before. He took note of the General's email instructing him to review certain priority files. He was probably the only person on the planet who got email attachments downloaded directly into his brain. God help him if they ever spammed the intersect.

It was a stacked file. A video marked "Top Secret – duplication not permitted". He'd long ago mastered the intricacies of video playback with sound. It expanded his downloads although video and sound files ate up megabytes of his mind. He always smiled when he thought of that. Still the computer nerd.

He opened the file and got the usual NSA logo and warning that such files yada yada yada. Mentally he hit "play" and wondered if all this high tech hocus-pocus would one day render them all obsolete.

_-Clip 1 Not for duplication – Patient 30039_

"_And I just couldn't answer his question. I didn't know who I was. I wasn't sure then but I'm sure now. I am Jenny Burton. And I loved Chuck Bartowski. I still love Chuck Bartowski. I always will. I'll never love anyone again because I'm not through loving him in this life. He gave me time and space and I wasted my time. I chose the job over him. I killed him just as surely as if I'd pulled the trigger on him, cut his throat, whatever. And he died alone, with strangers, not even his family there to support him."_

- _Clip 2 Not for duplication- Patient 30039_

"I want you to think about what he said when you were both on the chopper after the firefight." He consulted his notes. "He said 'I'm broken. Aren't we a pair.' And you said nothing in response. But what were you thinking?"

-_Clip 3 Not for duplication- Patient 30039_

"I was thinking that I was broken too and that he would heal me. We would heal each other. I really believed that. I still believe that. And I always will. I wouldn't be here if he'd survived, if I hadn't been a coward and had just answered his fucking question. I am Jenny Burton, Chuck, Jenny Burton and I'll always love you."

He was stunned. She thought he was dead and that somehow she had killed him. Why? Why would she think such a thing? She was in the goddamned NSA- for chrissakes, she could access God's tax returns. So why didn't she know he was alive and kicking?

He closed his eyes and reran the clips. He kept running them over and over and over…

"Chuck, Chuck, Goddammit Chuck, don't do this…" Casey was in a panic. Chuck was still in the intersect chair. He'd been worried when 30 minutes after the download session ended Chuck hadn't returned to his office and he'd gone in search of his Director. He never knew what trouble he'd get into on his own. And now he was in serious trouble. There was something wrong with the download. There had to be. He pushed the panic button in the download lab. Tears were streaming from Chuck's eye and he was rigid, almost on the brink of a convulsion.

**_"Medical Emergency in Laboratory 1 – Medical Emergency in Laboratory 1"_**

**Cedars-Sinai Emergency Room**

It's almost like a grand mal seizure but with none of the accompanying convulsive symptoms. EEG is almost normal but shows a high level of upper level activity. It's almost as if he's thinking at an astonishing rate.

The NSA-approved neurologist was not privy to the intersect. Nor would he become so. His job was to keep his patient alive until those with proper levels of authorization made themselves available. He'd ordered a CT scan and had mulled over the results. This was impossible. This man's brain looked like… he had no idea. For lack of a better description he tagged the image "spaghetti poured over brain". And the scan showed that he was utilizing fully 18% of his capacity. That was unheard of. He'd run the scan twice to be sure. He was already outlining his paper for the AMA Journal when a voice interrupted his musings.

"Thank you for your assistance, Doctor. You're excused." Devon Woodcombe was not a neurologist. But he did have intersect clearance. "Leave the scans, please. I'll have them properly disposed of" and motioned the doctor to leave with 'shooing' motions of his hands.

"Oh, Chuckster, what have you done to yourself now?" He consulted his protocol manual for this situation. It had never occurred before but there were protocols in place for such an occurrence.

"You have got to be kidding me!" and threw the glass of cold water in Chuck's face.

The response was instantaneous. He reached for his cannon and wiped the water from his eye and tried to orient himself all simultaneously with predictable results. He could not do any of them. Five point restraints. For just an instant he thought he was back in Moab. But just for an instant. He fought to focus his good eye on the doctor looming over him. "Hey, Devon, sorry about missing dinner…" and promptly fell asleep.

"Look, John, it's his life. You can't keep him from living it. Sarah er… Jenny is a part of him just like Ellie was a part of me. You have to let him go and make his mistakes. Just be there to help if he needs it."

John Casey stood outside the exam room where Chuck Carmichael slept, blissfully unaware of the tension and turmoil his "seizure" was causing.

"Dammit Devon, she's going to do it again. I know her. She's a coward when it comes to relationships. She'll run the minute things get to the commitment stage. She did it before, twice, and I'm damned if I'll stand for her fucking him over a third time. And what do you mean, 'Ellie was a part'?" He'd always liked Ellie Bartowski. Thought she was a helluva woman even for a flaming pinko liberal. Once you got past the Ellie-joy hugs and squeals, she was ok. Well, more than ok but ok would do for now.

"Ellie and I are… taking a break. I moved back in to my old apartment. The wedding is on hold, indefinitely. But that's my problem. My Bro's got a chance at real happiness, Casey, he deserves the shot. It's his life, not yours or mine. Let him make his own decision. He's a lot smarter than either of us."

"Not where she's concerned, he's not."

"Well, that's his decision. I trust him to make the right one. And you should too. Now, tell me what's been going on with my Bro there. He looks like shit, Casey. I thought you were taking care of him. Tell me all the gory details while I get his discharge paperwork done and we'll take him to where ever he calls home. You know, he's going to be pissed when he finds out you left all his clothes back at the office. Man, that sounds lame even to me…" And they enjoyed a laugh at Chuck's expense while Casey brought Devon up to speed on the Saga of the Carmichael.

Angie Fuentes waited impatiently in the Emergency Room waiting area. She had her boss' clothes with her. It was a good thing someone thought of these things. Men. She'd never understand how they forgot the little things. Hearing Casey's laugh and a voice that was vaguely familiar she decided she'd waited long enough and barged into the exam room.

"Major Casey, here are the boss' clothes I… Devon?" Angie looked at Casey, then her boss then Devon Woodcombe, a guy she'd dated when she'd first joined the agency before… before she went deep cover.

"Angie? You work for Chuck?" he was astonished. The very last person in the world he ever thought he'd see again was Angie Gillespie.

"You two know each other?" asked Casey, suddenly interested.

They explained that they'd dated while Devon was at UCLA but had drifted apart after he'd started seeing Ellie Bartowski.

Chuck made his presence known. "If you expect me to get dressed by myself, someone better release these damned restraints." Devon went to take care of the obvious leaving a curious Casey and an uncommunicative Angie Fuentes. "Look, I went deep cover right after I stopped seeing Devon. I never made the connection between The Carmichael and Ellie Bartowski. Don't make a federal case of it, Major."

"Hey, just asking here. Inquiring minds want to know. So, you know Ellie?" and the conversation progressed until a clothed Director and a grinning Devon emerged. "So, we're on for beers later tonight? You've never seen my apartment."

Chuck launched a preemptive strike. "Casey, he's a doctor. If I couldn't have beer he'd tell me. Quit being a mother hen and just get me the hell out of this hell hole. Reminds me of Moab and you know how cranky I get when I dwell on that hole in the ground."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Moving with a purpose, sir." Chuck cuffed Casey's shoulder and said "Ok, enough. Just get us out of here. Devon, I'll call you for directions."

Angie Fuentes knew who was driving the Director to Devon's.

John Casey wondered what excuse he could come up with to see Ellie Bartowski.

Charles Carmichael just wondered why life was so damned hard sometimes.


	26. Chapter 26 End of Part 1

Moah264of4

_**Author's notes at end of story. **_

Previously

_"Medical Emergency in Laboratory 1 – Medical Emergency in Laboratory 1"_

_"__Chuck, Chuck, Goddammit Chuck, don't do this…"_

_Charles Carmichael just wondered why life was so damned hard sometimes._

**Delta Flight 1022 Reagan Int'l to LAX Friday **

Jenny Burton was enjoying first class, even if the upgrade was at her own expense. She could have waited and flown out on the government flight with her analysts Sunday morning but the Agent in her wanted to arrive early and recon the site and old habits were hard to break. And, even though she had refused to admit it to herself, she wanted to return to the environs she considered "home" more than anywhere else.

She'd talked with her NSA shrink, a surprisingly insightful man who'd been an agent 'back in the day', about the sense of homelessness that deep-cover agents felt and he'd nodded and wisely said as little as possible. Her first marathon session had begun with her throwing a knife at him and ended when he'd thrown it back.

'Home was where the heart is' went the old saying. And her heart was wherever Chuck was. But she had no intention of looking for him when she got to L.A. Monday morning would be soon enough and she wasn't sure what kind of reception awaited her.

She did not expect banners or ticker tape but she hoped for more than a nod, grunt and frown from Casey. They'd been partners for more than 2 years. Surely that counted for something? But apparently his loyalty to the mission trumped his loyalty to his partner. After all, he had warned her, had served notice on her in no uncertain terms. She hadn't called his bluff. She hadn't even considered it. She had reacted to circumstances and his call had been a part of the ensuing cascade failure of her last days as a CIA agent.

For now, she got out her laptop and pulled up her TO-DO list. She didn't plan on staying in the government-selected hotel long. She wanted something less transient, less tentative, because regardless of the outcome, she was here to stay. This was a long-term investment in Jenny Burton by the NSA. She viewed it in exactly the same light. So number one on her list was an apartment, close to the facility; number two was a car, not a Porsche, nothing that flashy or ostentatious or expensive since she was paying for it herself. But still, something with some muscle, maybe a Mustang?

Updating her TO-DO list with notes and changes, she closed the file and pulled up the latest dailies from the Morning Summaries. It wasn't actually a morning report but a compilation of flash events, reports from foreign stations, anything not occurring between normal business hours, D.C. time. In the old days they were called the "overnights" because of the time differences between Washington and, say, Manila. They were received, decrypted and routed to the proper desks.

One item in particular attracted her attention. The NSA-W reported a medical emergency during a classified procedure with ensuing hospitalization involving a senior-level executive. The report was filed by Angelina Fuentes, AA, and endorsed by Major John Casey, Chief of Security. Even NSA had to report to OSHA. But normally the facility or station director endorsed the incident report not the head of station or facility security – unless it involved someone higher up the chain of command – like the director.

Chuck!?! Oh, crap. What trouble did he get into now?

One thing Jenny Burton had yet to learn was that Charles Carmichael was far different from the nerd, Chuck Bartowski, she once knew. He hadn't had an infusion of super powers but he'd won the loyalty and admiration of a group of hard-core agents and analysts during the High Sierra affair and also in the many operations planned and frequently executed by their Director. He led from the front, by example. He was The Carmichael.

Had Jenny Burton's thoughts been overheard by any of Chuck's people she would have been set straight immediately. That "What trouble did he get into now" comment and especially the derisive tone would have gotten her figurative ass in an equally figurative sling.

Chuck Bartowski was dead. Director Charles Carmichael was alive **and respected**. And that was something she'd have to realize immediately if she was going to be successful as Assistant Deputy Director, NSA-W and if she was to be successful in winning back the man she loved. She had to be sure she was targeting Charles Carmichael.

But _she_ didn't know that.

When she arrived in L.A. she rented a car from Alamo. A blue Mustang convertible. Might as well see if she liked one. At government expense, too. That tickled her sense of propriety. Next she'd checked into the hotel, taken a quick shower and headed out for something she'd been missing since going to the East Coast. And the drive gave her the opportunity to flex the car's "muscle".

Los Angeles, CA Office of Argent Security Corp. 

Mrs. Angie Fuentes was silently planning the demise of one Jennifer Burton, Deputy Director for Analysis, NSA-W (formerly Agent Sarah Walker, CIA).

Last night she'd accompanied her boss to Devon Woodcombe's apartment. She only intended to drive her boss there and then camp out in the parking lot across the street to make sure he was all right. She took her protective detail responsibilities seriously. But, ever the gentleman, he'd invited – no, insisted- that she join them since she was an old friend of Devon's. She really didn't want to. Seeing Devon had made her realize how empty her non-work life was. But she couldn't resist that one brown eye and that puppy dog look. Even if the most devastating part was covered by his beard.

And so she found herself talking to Devon Woodcombe for long into the night. Chuck had fallen asleep about mid-way through his second beer. Devon said that was to be expected since the downloading process was really quite an ordeal. And he did it twice a week? The man was nuts. That was insane. Her respect and concern for her boss increased even more. She knew about sacrifice.

She checked in with Major Casey and let him know she was with the Boss. That he was asleep at Devon's and after he'd had a reasonably sound nap she would bring him back to the hotel. Casey fully agreed. He worried about the Boss' health like an old mother hen, an image she found most incongruous.

She and Devon exchanged "Do you remembers" and "What have you been doings" until the subject was exhausted. Naturally the subject of her Boss came up. She was amazed to find out that he was younger than she was! That the hair was dyed as was the beard but that the scars and eye patch were not part of the disguise. Devon knew she was cleared for all of this since she'd appeared on his "Roster of Treatable Government Operatives – Classified".

So Angie Fuentes learned of the epic love story of Chuck & Sarah. She learned about Chuck's unsuspected brain injury and his flight into paranoia. About the accident with the drunk and his injuries, the betrayal of the Praetorians, the Battle of the High Sierra Forest, and his rescue and about how he came to NSA-W. She began to hate Sarah Walker and cry for Jenny Burton. Until Jenny Burton left Chuck Bartowski alone in that hole in the ground. That was unforgivable.

And the bitch was coming here Monday to work as an assistant to the Boss? Unbelievable. Unforgivable.

She buttonholed Casey first thing Friday morning and talked about the whole affair after she'd told him what Devon had told her about the Ellie situation. Casey filled her in on some of the more gruesome details of the battle, and especially the mental state of her boss after the "big betrayal". He was up-front with her. He had called Beckman. He owed it to the kid. When she raised an eyebrow at his reference he'd blushed and said it was hard to ignore whom he'd been for so long. She let it slide.

But between them they'd formed a pact to protect The Carmichael from the destructive woman he so loved.

She planned on involving Devon in the planning since he knew the "Chuck & Sarah Cover Story" so well.

There was no mention of including Ellie. Even John Casey thought it would be a bad move.

"Ellie Bartowski's a loose cannon where her little brother is concerned. Doesn't matter that he's a hero, a man capable of turning a group of Chinese into Tsao Chicken, he's her little brother, all she's got left of her family. Keep her away from Jennifer Burton. It wouldn't be fair to her and by that I mean Sar…er… Jennifer. You've never seen Mama Grizzly protect her cub. Ain't pretty."

"Y'know, Angie, I didn't know Chuck was assigned an asset protection agent. Beckman didn't tell me and you didn't introduce yourself or state your true assignment. Hell, I vetted you for the position and didn't have high enough clearance to get access to a lot of your assignments. Why didn't you tell me you were a bodyguard for the Boss? I figured something like that when those two dumb asses from Fulcrum tried to infiltrate and he double-tapped them out. You were standing behind him with that mini-howitzer of yours covering his back. Definitely not the usual AA-hide-under-the-desk-screaming-behavior."

She just smiled at him sweetly. "Lean down here so I don't have to strain and I'll whisper it in your ear." So Casey leaned down and she whispered softly but saucily "It's a secret. Way above your pay grade, Major Casey, way, way above."

And it was above his pay grade. And hearing the intimate gory details put flesh on the bare-bones briefing she'd received when she'd been pulled off a U.S. Senator and been summoned to a very hush-hush meeting at the most exclusive address in the world.

Los Angeles, CA Office of Argent Security Corp. – Director's Office

Chuck hated the weekends. He usually stayed late at the facility on Friday nights and then went to a shooting range downtown, slept as long as possible on Saturdays (meaning up at 7am when Casey banged on the suite door yelling "Daylight's burning, Chuck, up and at 'em) and spent hours on the nautilus machines in the hotel gym, and Sundays, well Sundays were either do nothing and hope Casey didn't notice or go into the facility and review plans for the SPIF* operation and make endless lists of improvements, changes and complaints. The NSA contractor liaison absolutely _hated _Monday morning briefings with the Boss.

_*Special Projects Isolation Facility – an actual function at the CyberWarfare Command Center at Barksdale AFB in Bossier City, LA. It is a huge area, essentially a massive multi-storied Faraday Cage, and is virtually impervious to EMP. It is also a design area for programmers using next-generation computers to do modeling for various military functions. It houses labs, work areas and the CSCC of SAC._

_Using lessons learned from the OKC & WTC bombings, the building uses hi-tensile blast-resistant extruded panels and is surrounded by earthen berms, concrete fencing and a frikkin' no shit MOAT._

_Such a place will play a major role in the NSA-W story I've been conjuring up. And although a sequel of sorts, I think I like typing SARAH much better then Jeni er Jennif er well, you get the idea. A-P-R._

But this Friday night he was going out to dinner, alone, in San Pedro. There was a little place near FT Macarthur that he'd discovered and had taken… well, he'd gone there for a couple of cover dinners. No big thing but the ambiance was nice and the food was decent, very good actually, and it had been far away from Burbank and now the NSA-W.

He toyed with the idea of asking Mrs. Fuentes if she had dinner plans but didn't want to run the risk of upsetting any apple carts Devon might have lined up. He agreed with Devon, he and Ellie would probably never marry. A real downer because he actually considered Devon a brother. But he knew his sister. He thought he knew his sister. She really took the betrayal thing hard. She'd felt about … her as Chuck did about Devon. Except he could still talk with Devon. Ellie had no one. And the fact that Devon sided against her and with the NSA, well, she took that as a betrayal of trust and of her brother. Collateral damage.

Morgan and Ellie. Victims. Collateral damage. An innocuous term with such sharp consequences for peoples lives.

What he'd do is duck out on Casey and Mrs. Fuentes. Of course he'd take his cell phone and wear that damned watch, but he figured that as long as they knew where he was they wouldn't be as likely to assume something untoward and follow him.

But before dinner he had to perform the Ritual. Every Friday night he went down to a gun shop on Pico that had a range in the back for handgun owners to practice. He practiced religiously every Friday and sometimes the occasional Sunday if he could escape the incessant surveillance of Major John Casey. Casey was doing his job but he sometimes wished he were less diligent. He needed space like everyone else.

He parked his NSA-issue sedan in the parking lot of the converted Sears building and entered through the employee entrance. He was considered a 'VIP' and had been given the access code so that he could practice anytime he wanted but he didn't like to abuse their graciousness and trust. He had a hard enough time getting them to accept his AMEX card for his two boxes of .45 caliber hollow points he shot through every visit.

He waved to the clerk and went behind the counter and took out a single box not his normal 2. He laid his AMEX on the counter and told the clerk that if he didn't charge him for the cartridges and the practice time this time, he'd kneecap him. The guy took his card and ran the charges. The owner would kill him if he knew but he wasn't sure if the guy with the eye patch and cane was kidding or not. He looked meaner than shit some nights. He didn't want to take a chance. So he ran the card.

Chuck went back through the door to the practice range. Rarely was anyone there on a Friday night and that was why he practiced the Ritual on Fridays. He opened the box and dumped the rounds on the shooting table. Each lane was like a library carrel with high sides and a tabletop. It also had ear protectors that he always used. He already had slight hearing loss in his right ear and he didn't want to make it any worse. He also wore protective goggles. He only had one functional eye and the intersect was too important a function to be sloppy and risk a ricochet.

He took out 3 magazines and hung a silhouette and sent it down range. When he got to 50 feet he stopped the target. He charged his pistol, assumed his comfortable stance and slid off the safety. Now for the Ritual. It was almost a liturgical chant.

BLAM Thank you Bryce for the gift that just keeps on giving.

BLAM Thank you Jill for being true to your colors. Bitch.

BLAM Thank you General Beckman for making her leave.

BLAM Thank you nameless drunk for failing to kill me.

BLAM Thank you 24 for keeping me company in my dreams.

BLAM Thank you Colonel Wu for turning me into a killer, a murderer.

Then he would clear the weapon, eject the magazine, reload and bring back the target. First shot was always in the face. Second was always in the heart. Third was almost always in the gut. The rest were distributed throughout the torso. Almost all were kill shots.

He put up a new target, a smaller target and sent it out and fired through the magazine but no names this time, just the original 6. They would be his opening shots for the foreseeable future.

Each time he'd use a smaller target. So far he'd always run out of bullets before targets.

The final part of the ritual was also by rote. Reload the magazines and put them back on his belt. Reload the pistol and set the safety. Police up his brass and put it in the reload bin. Throw away the targets. Put away the ear protectors, take down his cane and hang up the goggles. And leave the way he came. All this in 60 minutes or less. Ritual.

Forgiveness ritual with names, each time fewer names. Each time, forgiveness for some.

The first time Casey had followed him. He didn't like the idea of Chuck being around town on his own. And it was his job. He'd seen the red Miata also. He bugged Chuck's lane and tapped into the CCTV feed in the shooting range. He waved at Mrs. Fuentes and pointed to his passenger seat. They watched and listened together.

The first six names were no surprise. The major players who were responsible for his current state of affairs. The reasons for each were clear and succinct. He could understand each of the reasons and given the sarcastic stress on the drunk, the Boss was pissed that he hadn't been killed and that worried Casey.

Then came the second magazine, a full standing silhouette and a second group of names.

Stupid Fulcrum operative #1 (Head) and #2 (Head), Dr. Jennifer Dupree (Torso), Jennifer Burton (Heart), Sarah Walker (Heart), Major John Casey (Gasp), Ellie Bartowski (Miss). He understood everyone but Ellie. His adoring sister. Why her? And why did he miss?

Casey knew he'd seen a new side of Chuck – the Chuck who kept "score", who counted coup but offered forgiveness.

He had the decency to blush when he heard "Major John Casey" and the reason. He looked at Mrs. Fuentes who just shrugged. "Hey, at least he's sublimating. He could have shot your nuts off for real."

**LA Harbor Fwy - Southbound **

Chuck enjoyed driving down to San Pedro. He'd had a craving for seafood paella and he knew he could satisfy it in San Pedro. He watched for the exit constantly checking his side mirror because his depth perception wasn't up to normal, and never would be. Even being as attentive as he was, he didn't see the red Miata following him 4 car lengths behind. He just never noticed those things.

Angie Fuentes didn't mind her job. In fact she loved her job. Her boss who really had no clue it was her job to protect him treated her with deference and respect. And she liked him. But right now she didn't like him. She was a little pissed off at Director Charles Carmichael.

He'd slipped off the grid as nicely as could be. He caught her unawares and it was only his Friday habit that enabled her to catch up with him. She knew he didn't do it deliberately. He probably figured she and Devon Woodcombe might have plans for the evening. Well, Devon had plans. She had The Carmichael.

Chuck took the next exit for San Pedro. He drove like a little old lady sometimes but he still didn't feel comfortable with his vision loss. So he compensated – big time – by always trying to avoid busy roads, taking side streets whenever possible. He still was not 100% comfortable with driving fast in traffic.

"Director, my grandmother can drive better than you! And she's 88 next winter." Angie Fuentes yelled at Chuck in the privacy of her car knowing he couldn't hear her. Anyone seeing her would justifiably think "road rage" and ignore her. It wasn't rage, it was humor. A guy younger than her driving like an old fart just tickled her to no end.

Jenny Burton had her "spidey senses crawling", as Chuck used to say. She noticed a sedan with NSA issue plates being tailed by a red Miata. Something wasn't right with this picture but she knew a tail when she saw one, she'd done enough of them. Four car-lengths back, follow the mark, don't be too obvious, well, a red Miata was obvious, change pursuit vehicle positions constantly. She hadn't changed position so maybe it was a single tail. She'd know in a few seconds.

He maneuvered the big government land yacht into the restaurant parking lot. He was hungry and already contemplating dinner. He debated not using his cane but figured he'd better. No sense embarrassing himself by falling on his fanny in a room full of people. He fumbled with the cane, the seatbelt and the door. 'Klutz' he thought. Clumsy. Graceful he was not. It was worse near the end of the day and it had been a long day.

Angie Fuentes pulled into the restaurant parking lot and parked directly behind Chuck and two rows back. She'd taken two parking spots but an unrestricted view of the Director entering and leaving was critical. She took no chances with her charge.

Jennifer Burton pulled the Mustang in behind the Miata, two rows back. She got out of her car and approached the Miata from the blind spot in the rear. She didn't have to be stealthy; her target was fixated on the older man getting out of the vehicle fumbling with a cane.

She pulled a knife from a thigh sheaf under her short skirt and pressed it firmly against the woman's throat. "What are you doing following that man? He's an employee of a government agency, let's see some ID…"

Shit. She'd been so focused on making sure the Director didn't fall that she'd been made. But by whom? No cop would have used a knife. Nope, she'd be staring down the barrel of a SPPD Smith & Wesson if it were. She decided to take the high road.

"I'm going to reach into my purse on the passenger seat and remove my ID" and reached with her right hand to remove her ID wallet and badge.

"Stop. Anything but an ID comes out of that purse and the interior of this car will match the paint job." Not an idle threat. She was keyed up. Something about this did not seem kosher.

Angie pulled out her wallet and flipped it open with practiced ease. "Angelina Fuentes, US Secret Service." Oh shit oh dear.

"So who's the mark?" Jennifer asked too casually.

"He's not a mark. He's my boss and I'm his protective detail. He's no one's mark. He's my Direc…" and stopped. She'd said too much already but something about this bitch just put her off. Calling him a mark!

The other shoe dropped. Angelina Fuentes had submitted the incident report on the summary… Administrative Assistant to the Deputy Director of NSA-W…

From the look on the woman's face something had made a loud "click" in her mind. She could practically see the wheels turning in her head. There was something familiar about the way she looked. Honey-brown hair in a short bob, artic blue eyes. She knew this woman from someplace.

"And just who are you? You seem to know a lot about… a lot." She finished lamely.

She heard the zoned-out woman say "Chuck" and turn around and start walking towards the Director. Oh, shit. It was her. It was her. Angelina Fuentes was 8 inches shorter than Jennifer Burton but appeared much larger as she ran past and whirled and stood fast facing her.

"Out of my way, please. I have to see him."

"Why? Want to see what you've done to him up close and personal? Want to see what's become of the wreck you left behind in that fucking hole in Utah? Well, that's so not going to happen. I know all about you, Sarah Walker, Jenny Burton, whoever you are. I talked to Devon, I talked to Casey, and I've heard what you did to him. I've seen what you did to him. A kind, decent, loving man and you threw him on the dung heap and kept on going. Never looked back. Didn't try to contact him, didn't even care what happened to him. Just switched teams and moved up the management ladder."

Jennifer Burton froze in horror. If this is what Fuentes thought, what Devon and Casey thought, what must Chuck think.

"No, no, you've got it all wrong, I was ordered back to Langley, given no choice. I was fired. I had no way of knowing what happened. No way of getting in touch with any of them. Then I went to work for General Beckman, went into mandatory therapy, became an analyst, lost my field status, then I read a report that Charles Bartowski had died of complications during surgery. He was dead and he never knew… I even called Ellie, his sister, she said she'd buried Chuck that very morning."

"I went months not knowing the truth. I finally finished therapy and was assigned to classified analyses. I found out about NSA-W, Casey's assignment but never the name of the Director. It was always redacted or not mentioned. Then I read about a medical emergency at NSA-W and it started to make sense. I called the last doctor to operate on him in Moab and she said he survived, that he would never regain full sight in his left eye due to nerve damage but he was alive!"

"Then I confronted General Beckman. She said Chuck didn't know I was coming. That my assignment was predicated on finishing therapy. That he was ill and not recovering and that she was worried and that was why she let me believe he was dead. But then after therapy she said it was up to me to 'fix' him."

Angelina Fuentes was ashamed. Listening to the increasingly distraught woman describe her ordeal was heartbreaking. She had made assumptions without full information. She put her arm on the woman's forearm.

"But Jenny, he's alive and he has no idea you're the Deputy Director coming on Monday. Yes, he's still wobbly and has his vertigo spells but he's alive." And she laughed at the pure joy of it. "And he's doing an incredible job and making such a difference." And she told her about the Rinaldi party and how they'd wrapped up an entire network of sleeper cells without any risk of exposing NSA-W, about how he'd put down the two Fulcrum agents who'd tried to infiltrate the facility with a pair of "double taps". "But he's incomplete, so unhappy. He hasn't seen his family since Moab. He's just… a working stiff with no life."

"And he's got this Friday night ritual he goes through. It creeps me out but Casey says it's good for him. Says it's his path to forgiveness. And I do know one thing for sure." And she told her about the how Casey had bugged him for audio and video and they had watched him 'thank' all the people in his life who'd done something to bring him to that point.

"Jenny, you, Casey, Ellie, even Dr. Dupree and the two Fulcrum infiltrators… you were all missing from tonight's 'Thank You' list. You've been forgiven."

"It doesn't matter, because he'll never believe me. He'll never know what I went through to get here. I'm broken and he's broken and we're a pair. But we can heal each other, I know it. If he'll just give us a chance."

Chuck had forgotten something. But he didn't know what. Just that nagging in the back of his mind that said 'hey, dumbass, forget something?' He did the usual male thing, patted his pockets checking for his wallet, his keys, the usual.

Maybe he left the lights on in the car. He didn't know what it was but he knew it would bug the crap out of him if he didn't check.

He opened the door of the restaurant with its faux-wharf look and stepped out onto the planking deck leading to the stairs. This was still tricky for him. He wasn't totally uncoordinated but he was tired and so he held the railing and stepped down the steps to the graveled walkway one at a time. 'Just like some old grandpa. Hell, I'm not even 30 yet. This is so not awesome.' Awesome. He wondered if he would give it another try with Ellie or admit defeat and get back in the game. Reminded him of the clerk at the motel, the "player".

Yep, he'd left the damned lights on. Lame. These Government Issue cars lacked even the basics of civilized life – like lights that automatically turned off when the ignition key was removed. Or a decent radio. Hell, why not wish for a CD player while he was at it.

Now that he'd gotten back in the car he discovered he'd left his appetite in the restaurant. 'To hell with it, I'll grab a burger back in L.A. I'm too tired to go through all that again.' Lazy too.

He fumbled for the keys and started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. He headed back the way he'd come. Well, at least he had 2 hours less to fiddle away.

He didn't notice the red Miata tear out of the parking lot after him. Or the dark blue Mustang that followed. Or the 3 black Chevy Suburbans with limousine-tinted windows that caravanned out 5 minutes later.

**LA Harbor Fwy – Northbound**

There was no need for Angie Fuentes to be surreptitious about her surveillance of the Director. This was one time she _wanted_ him to make her. And stop and chew her out for wasting her time on him. And send her home. She had a plan. A deviously female plan. Complete with happy ending – she hoped.

She felt guilty about showing Jenny Burton her ID. It was legitimate but now she'd expanded the handful of people who knew that Director Carmichael enjoyed Secret Service protection. And she was just the _obvious_ one on the job. Of course there were others. The President's instructions had been clear: nothing whatsoever could or would happen to the Director. He'd been brevetted to the level of National Treasure and didn't even know it. Charles Carmichael's well being was of such paramount concern that Sarah Walker had been terminated by the CIA and transferred to the NSA because it was perceived to be important to the Director. Even if he didn't know it.

And all of this because one woman happened to run into another at a reception in Washington. Incredible as it sounded, many things got decided at cocktail parties.

So she pulled up beside his clunker land yacht and waved gaily and wasn't surprised when he immediately signaled and pulled over to the shoulder of the road. She'd been expecting that and had pulled in behind him. She got out of the car and walked up to his. She didn't want him getting out of the car and falling or something. If she'd said, "stay in the car" the reaction might have surprised her.

"Hey, Director, wasting taxpayers' gas?" and she laughed.

"Why don't you go do whatever it is that beautiful young women do on a Friday night and let me have some quiet time alone? I'm just heading to the hotel to change into some grungy clothes and go sit on the beach and think. No risk of being swallowed like Jonah or anything you might need to protect me from. Take off, Mrs. Fuentes. You're not getting your way tonight."

'Beautiful woman?' She blushed and spun on her heel. If Jenny doesn't make a move on you, Chuck, I just might have to. Why did he have to be so damned nice all the time? 'Well, it's Showtime.' She took out her cell and punched in a number she seldom had to use.

"HARDDRIVE is going to the beach. To think. If GODDESS makes an appearance, do not, I say again, do not intervene. I will be in a 2009 blue Ford Mustang convertible and will be monitoring. My Miata will also be on-site." She listened to the man on the other end of the call for about 30 seconds before interrupting him with a belly laugh. "No, I'm not going to get my jollies off. At least nowhere you'll be able to surveil. Now make nice or I'll tell FLOTUS on ya." Another laugh and she disconnected the call.

Chuck drove to his hotel. He slipped into his room and changed into what he called comfortable clothes and then slid back out. He wore a windbreaker to cover his .45 in a skeleton rig. No sense freaking out anyone walking along the beach. He also made sure he had his 'NSA Get out of Jail Free' card – a seldom-used Photo ID with his name and rank. In point of fact, he didn't think he'd ever used it. Well, there was always a first time. And he wouldn't have Mrs. Fuentes covering his ass tonight. He'd watched her turn off toward Westwood. Probably going to Devon's. Ugh, mixed feelings there. He really needed to go see his sister. He just didn't want to listen to her bitch about _that woman_. He got enough of that from Casey all day every day, at every opportunity.

He walked to his car, limped actually, it had been a really long day and he'd been on his feet most of it. He popped the trunk and checked to make sure his war bag was still secure and then got in the car and drove west, avoiding the freeways and just poking along on the surface streets. He was headed for the beach and the sunset.

He checked his mirrors periodically and was pleased to see that Mrs. Fuentes had taken his advice and gone to be with the beautiful people.

Angie Fuentes pushed the envelope on the freeway with the big Ford's engine roaring and the wind whipping through the car. This was a lot more fun than she thought she'd have on Friday night. She headed towards the PCH and the beach.

Chuck pulled into the parking lot down from the Santa Monica Pier. Given the time, it wasn't hard to find a free spot or eighty or so. He put his keys in his pocket, scooped up his cane and got out and locked the car. No sense asking for trouble. Or the embarrassment of calling Casey. "Casey, someone stole my car, can you pick me up?" Would give Casey fodder for jokes for weeks. Nope, not feeding that maw. He got enough material just watching Chuck do everyday things.

Chuck had been to the beach many times since becoming Director of NSA-W, in fact some of his most intriguing ideas came while he just vegged out looking and listening to the surf. His favorite time was when a storm off shore pushed the wave into huge combers crashing against the pier pilings. It made him realize just how short and violent life could be. Wave after wave crashing down on him. Made him feel insignificant and that helped him deal with his problems. He was insignificant and thus, so were they.

He had about 30 minutes of daylight left. One of the things on his bucket list was seeing the green flash when the sun dipped just below the surface of the horizon and the prismatic lens of the ocean caused the final rays to flash emerald green. He couldn't begin to count the number of evenings he'd sat on this spot on the beach hoping to catch the flash. So far, no flash.

He heard a big block engine revving up in the parking lot. Probably drag racers congregating for a couple of quick races before the CHP got wind of it and shut them down. He twisted around to look and 'Damn her. I told her to take the night off!' There was that damned red Miata. Mrs. Fuentes needed time off just like everyone else did. And he'd given her strict instructions. Well, maybe a spanking was in order. If she wanted to behave like a child…

He walked carefully but slowly over the 50 yards of sand to the car. No one was in it. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn't hers. He checked the tags. Yep, her car. But where the hell was she?

He looked around but couldn't see anyone in the lot. He checked out the pier but couldn't focus well enough to recognize more than blurs. His eye was tired this late in the day. Screw it. He headed back for his spot. He was deep in thought and wasn't looking ahead but rather down and so he was surprised to see the fuzzy outline of a woman sitting in 'his' space, arms wrapped around drawn up legs watching the waves.

Well, there went his privacy, his thinking time. He turned and started for the car when he heard "Chuck, please don't go. Don't leave me when I've just found you again" and he froze, unable to move, unable to breathe, able to do little more than maintain his balance. But he was very tired and he felt the first swirling signs of vertigo coming on. A cane was useless in sand and he carried it more out of habit than need tonight. But he instinctively planted the cane and leaned on it…

And promptly fell on his face, sprawling gracelessly on the sand.

Angie Fuentes saw her boss fall. Oh, crap, sand, fatigue and stress did not make for a graceful Carmichael.

She was about to alert her team to be prepared for a possible emergency medical transport but the circuit was stepped on by "HARDDRIVE IS DOWN, REPEAT, HARDDRIVE IS DOWN" and "SIERRA ONE HAS A SHOT" and "SIERRA THREE HAS A SHOT".

"NO, no, he just fell, ABORT, ABORT, ABORT!"

Jenny Burton scooted over to Chuck on her hands and tried to roll him over on his back. She was terrified he'd had a stroke or a recurrence of whatever the "medical emergency" last week had been. From the time it registered in her mind that he was falling until she rolled him over she was repeating a mantra of "Oh, Chuck, no, no, no, no, not now". His entire body was shaking and she thought he was having a seizure or gone into convulsions. She carefully rolled him over and pulled him up onto her lap, cradling his head and shoulders in her arms. She almost dropped him.

Charles Carmichael, Deputy Director of the NSA, Director of NSA-W, was enjoying the first real laugh he'd had in weeks if not months.

"Smooth move, Bartowski, way to make a suave and debonair impression on a lady" he said, looking up into artic blue eyes that had filled his dreams and nightmares for months. Eyes filled with desperate concern and what? Something he couldn't identify. But it was there.

"So, got plans for the weekend, Assistant Deputy Director Burton?" he asked, suddenly serious. She didn't know what to make of this sudden change in mood. Her joy at seeing him alive and joking evaporated, leaving her with a sense of dread.

"No, I just got into town, I don't report to the NSA-W until Monday, sir." Best keep it professional.

"Good. Want to go to Vegas and get married?" No joking tone. Serious. Direct. No shifting of the eye, nothing to indicate an ulterior motive.

"Yes."

And they did. But not right away.

* * *

Angie Fuentes had heard enough. "All HARDDRIVE detail withdraw and prepare for a road trip. They're not going anywhere for a bit. And we need to prepare for a road trip. We're going to a wedding, guys!" She then checked the time, almost midnight East Coast time, and dialed a number she'd been instructed to use immediately when the situation resolved itself favorably, and not until.

"Agent Fuentes in Los Angeles, ma'am. Situation resolved most satisfactorily. We're relocating to Las Vegas, probably by air."

"Yes, ma'am, Las Vegas. Yes, ma'am, I'm sure. I heard it myself. Well, as best I recall he said "got plans for the weekend, Assistant Deputy Director Burton?" and she answered "No, I just got into town, I don't report to the NSA-W until Monday, sir." Yes, ma'am, she said "sir". Um, let me finish my report before you do that, ma'am, he's going to need them. He said "Good. Want to go to Vegas and get married?"

Angie Fuentes could not imagine FLOTUS giggling delightedly like a schoolgirl.

* * *

"Of course she said _'Yes"_. The woman's not nuts, y'know?"

Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas NV

"Director Charles Carmichael, are you sleeping?"

"No, Assistant Deputy Director Jennifer Carmichael, I'm just resting."

"Chuck, the name 'Jennifer', y'know it's not really my name. I mean not my birth name. It's just the identity you learned about in San Diego. Like all the others, my Dad had a new name for a new game. Con artists can barely remember their own names."

Chuck turned on his side and faced his wife of 4 hours. "Where is this going? What are you saying? We're not married?" He had a worried look on his face. She could see that the approach was wrong. OK, start over.

She traced the scars on his face from forehead to eyebrow, from the corner of his eye down until it disappeared into his beard below his left eye. So close. She'd come so close to losing him. She shuddered and he drew the sheet up over her nakedness thinking she was cold.

"No, we're married. Why, bored with me already? Ready to cast me aside now that you've had me and move on to another? Mrs. Fuentes perhaps?" She was teasing. And just to prove it and because she'd always wanted to do it, she reached under the sheet and took him in hand, gently stroking him.

"You expect an honest answer when you're doing _that?" _ He could barely summon the words.

"Well, I see that the statistics are wrong. You're ready for round 4 already?" She was utterly delighted that she could provoke such a response in him. Utterly.

Thirty minutes later a thoroughly sated woman lay in the arms of her husband. "So, are you going to answer my question?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember the question. Right now I'm having trouble remembering my name. Is this all leading up to you wanting to keep your own name for professional reasons? If so, that's ok. I mean really. After all, _Carmichael_ wasn't my first choice. Not after all the trouble I went through to learn how to spell Bartowski when I was four."

"No, husband mine, I don't wish to keep my last name. I left it behind at the altar. I love being Mrs. Chuck Carmichael. Really. I do."

She traced another web of scars covering his left shoulder and chest. Shrapnel for the ambulance? A grenade? She shuddered again and burrowed deeper into his arms.

"Cold?" He reached for the sheet. How could she possibly be cold after that incredible…

"No. Just remembered how you looked on the helicopter. All bloody and broken. I was so afraid."

"I don't remember much after the… Mercedes thing. That was a dumb thing to do."

"No, it was a brave and selfless act. You knew you couldn't fall into enemy hands. But if you ever do anything like that again…"

"Ouch, Jesus, woman, that's attached, y'know? And you seem to have taken a liking to it and…"

She smothered his words with a kiss, deep and almost desperate. "I mean it, Chuck, never again. I don't think I'd survive more than a few minutes afterwards. I will not live without you in my life. So, unless you want to be the cause of my death, dear husband, don't ever put yourself in that position."

"Now about my name. I want to go back to my birth name, at least the first name. It will help settle a lot of unresolved issues according to my shrink. Think you could live with that? I mean, not calling me Jenny?"

"So what is your first name, your birth name? Griselda? Irmgaard? Lemme think. Annunziata? Annabella? Beulah? Calysta? Dudgedemona? Fiona? Helga? Pearl? Lulu?"

Realizing that he could go on and on, she whispered it in his ear.

"SARAH!?!"

"Are you upset? I mean I don't have to change. I can go by Jenny… please don't be angry."

"I fell in love with Sarah. How could I be angry? I love you by any name, but I loved you first as Sarah. Go ahead. Now I won't have to change that tattoo on my…"

He awoke the next morning to an empty bed. For a brief moment, just a fleeting instance in time, he wondered if it had all been a dream.

Then he heard the shower. He heard her singing. 'Don't quit your day job, Sarah Carmichael'. And he slipped out of bed to see if Sarah Carmichael liked shower sex.

She did. A lot.

**Los Angeles, CA Office of Argent Security Corp**

She stepped off the elevator precisely at 8:26am and went to the Director's office suite to check in. She'd definitely have to start getting up earlier. Shower sex was becoming her addiction. They'd spent Sunday in her hotel room, eating room service, reading the newpaper, working up to page 11 of the Kama Sutra and ducking Casey with Mrs. Fuentes's help. If anyone had seen her last evening they would have seen a woman who'd just been thoroughly ravished and had thoroughly enjoyed it.

"Good morning." Angie Fuentes noted the changes in Sarah Carmichael, most obviously the 2-pound hunk hanging on her finger but mostly it was the sense of peace and contentment that she fairly radiated.

"Good morning, Mrs. Fuentes. I have an appointment with Director Carmichael. Reporting in from FT Meade with a group of analysts. I'm Assistant Deputy Director Jennifer Burton." She hadn't yet informed General Beckman of the 'change' in status. Not that "Auntie Diane" was likely to object. She just didn't know yet.

"I've already coded you in, Director. I have your key cards and badge all ready. You've been cleared for "All Eyes" as well as "All Levels". And I've made the changes to update your status, Director Carmichael." Angie grinned at her boss' new wife. She wondered if she'd been surprised by the changes. Probably not.

"The Director isn't here. He's down in the SPIF hassling the contractor Liaison and the construction foreman. It's become his Monday morning ritual." Much better than the Friday 'Ritual' to be sure.

Sarah Carmichael took the proffered ID badge and started to affix it to her jacket when the solitaire diamond caught her eye. Who knew that her husband could be so… forceful and resourceful?

"Sarah, my wife will wear a diamond. A big one. One that shouts to the world '_**TAKEN'**_ and that's all there is to it. I will not yield on this so take your hands out of my pants and…"

Three hours later the manager of an exclusive jewelry store on Rodeo Drive was locking up his store A Sunday sale. Black AMEX. A beautiful woman and a dangerous-looking man. Cane, eye patch, scars. He couldn't wait to tell his wife. She was a romantic at heart. And she'd always liked that European cut diamond. The big one.

Mentally shaking her head at the memory she made a mental note. She'd need a new… when she noticed the name. **SARAH CARMICHAEL.**

Her 100-megawatt smile showed her surprise and appreciation. "Thanks for everything, Angie."

_A/N: Before y'all start screaming like mashed ducks re the abundance of loose ends, I've decided to use the tying up process as the introduction to a sequel as yet not totally mapped out. This quotation will provide an undercurrent in the sequel flow of minor story threads: "Friendship into love may change, but love to friendship – Never." A-P-R_


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